


A Garden of Men and Mer: Seed and Wolf

by iftheshoefits



Series: A Garden of Men and Mer [2]
Category: Skyrim, The Elder Scrolls - Fandom, The Elder Scrolls Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Angst, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Drama, Eventual Sex, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, It’s basically a novel, Long Buildup, Mystery, Romance, Sex, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, The Companions - Freeform, in chapter 2 now, longfic, unskilled Dragonborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25327732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iftheshoefits/pseuds/iftheshoefits
Summary: - Back from Hiatus!-Next update 3/30/2021Far in the north, where the wind children’s wails whip across the jagged maw of Nirn, I placed her gingerly among the frost-dusted grass. My little seed shall sprout and grow at the hands of the Wolves of Whiterun into what she was always meant to be. But, alas, a weed has sprouted to disrupt the prized flower...A woman is found among the grass and trees by a man of proclaimed honor. Shall the woman rise to meet the harrowing force before her? Shall the man learn the truth and correct a centuries-old wound?A Dragonborne journey that was originally just Vilkas smut but the smut is so much more potent with actual plot so I made the plot too interesting and there is now a whole canon to support the sex. Also including a Vilkas-centered plot with cut content for the Silver Hand.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Vilkas
Series: A Garden of Men and Mer [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746964
Comments: 60
Kudos: 43





	1. Spirited Away

**Author's Note:**

> So I finished this and then discovered Ria was an Imperial not a Redgaurd buuuuut it’s plot relevant so congrats she’s black now.

Far in the north, where the wind children’s wails whip across the jagged maw of Nirn, I placed her gingerly among the frost-dusted grass. Dark auburn hair twisted about her pale face, slashed and bruised from the pain of the journey. It was a necessity, for I could not allow her to succumb to such a foolish mistake as the petty theft of a horse. She would have lost her life, and the last blood of the dragons, over a blank-eyed beast of burden.

So I plucked her from her predicament and set her where she ought to be. Well, her and her old beast. A creature wholly unwilling to separate from its master. Ashen furred and sunken yellow eyes, the beast resembled the great wolf, but was broken by man. It followed us from the West to the North. Evidently, the situation faired for the better, as she was in no state to be useful when I set her on the path. The beast abandoned her temporarily to search for help on the road. There it found a man, a Nord, just as I intended.

He was a warrior, with a greatsword slung along his back, stiff short black hair, and war paint slathered around his blue eyes. But he held a secret in his blood. It bubbled at the scent of another beast. The white beast and the Nord stood opposite one another on the road for a moment as they sized the other for danger. Despite its disgust for the tainted Nord, the beast relented and lowered its head and ears. The man relaxed his hand from the sword hilt above his head when the creature whined and circled for him to follow. He complied, and the pair crept through the frozen branches towards the scent of dragon blood.

When he reached the woman, he found her bloodied and shivering in clothes torn to rags. There was not much I could do for her state at the time. But it was no matter, as he immediately fell to her side and attempted to wake her with light touches and urgent hellos. She did not wake. As he grew more concerned, the Nord unsheathed a small dagger from his belt and set it under the woman’s nose. The blade misted with warm breath and the man relaxed some. Finally, the Nord decided to be of actual use and collected the woman in his arms. The white beast circled about his legs as they made haste to the wooden keep lording high above the plains of the Reach.

I was satisfied with how these events played out, so I took my leave for the time being. A gardener can tend and water their fields, but the crop must grow on its own.

* * *

Marcella awoke from the healer’s table like she was climbing out of a bog. The air was thick with moisture but cut by the sharp smell of healing potion. By Debella, she ached from her neck to her ass, and her face was stiff from caked-on cream that reeked of blisterwort. She barely had time to assess more around her before she was assaulted by a frantic, soggy tongue.

“Oh! Ah! Down Garm!” The Imperial cried as she wrestled the white dog’s affections away. The poor thing whined and fidgeted with concern next to her bed. Finally, she was able to see that she was in a temple laymen with aqua tiles and several pools of water steaming into the air. There were many other men in the temple, gravely wounded and moaning their pain to themselves. Healers were flittering about, very overworked for how few there were. Finally, she noticed the old robed woman sitting at the foot of her makeshift bed.

“I’m glad to see you awake,” the old Nord woman said with a warm smile and a heavy Northern accent. Her head was too thick for her to voice the questions she could feel trapped under the fog. The old Nord continued in a mellow tone, “Poor thing, you were in awful shape. You had bruises all over and tore yourself to ribbons. What on earth were you doing?”

The old Nord’s question was more rhetorical, Marcella gathered from her motherly tone. The old woman began to wipe away the dried crusted healing cream from her face with a massive hand and wet rag. After a moment of the Nord tending to her, questions finally bubbled past Marcella’s fog. _Wait, what was I doing? Where am I? Oh goddess, I’m not safe here!_

The Nord noticed her rising distress and gently grabbed her hand. “Shh child,” the woman cooed, “It’s alright, dear thing. Why don’t you tell me your name?”

Marcella caught herself before her mouth could betray her. “Agatha,” she lied. They almost had her then. It isn’t safe now either.

The healer hummed and nodded gladly. She began to change a bandage on the Imperial’s right arm that took the brunt of the scratches. Garm obediently sat and placed his fuzzy head on the healing table to watch. “Well, Agatha, one of the Companions found you halfway to Riverwood out cold. It was a good thing he found you when he did, else the cold might have gotten to you first. But that’s all past and you’re safe now, aye?”

Marcella nodded limply, uncomfortable being the subject of such a dramatic tale. She was sure she would have been fine waking up where she landed… perhaps. She wanted to just get out of there, and back into some state of control where she could feel comfortable again. Instinctively, she reached down to her right side for a leather satchel that was not there. Fuck. She just wanted to leave. 

“You… would happen to have my stuff? A…,” Marcella mimed the size of the bag as her sluggish brain searched for the word, “...satchel?” She remembered the bag slipping off her in the commotion. The branches tore at her skin and caught on her satchel as she rode through the dense, wet, forest. Her horse must have caught its foot, as she heard a blood-curdling scream from it before sailing to the ground. That’s the last she remembered.

“No, I wasn’t given anything when the Companion brought you in,” The old healer hummed. 

Marcella’s face twisted. “Typical,” she huffed more to herself than the Nord, “Man finds some poor sod in the woods and helps himself to their stuff as a reward.”

Immediately the Nord threw a defense, “The Companions are ancient honorable warriors, not thieves.” Garm lowered his ears in response, but Marcella’s head pats told him to stand down. The old woman composed herself with a breath and continued in her original motherly tone. “Perhaps you could ask them about it. Vilkas is the one who brought you in. Across the square in Jorrvaskr.” She pointed out the door.

Marcella indignantly, yet sluggishly, threw her legs off the bed to confront the man. She collected her dog and took steps toward the door when she remembered her manners. “Thank you. I can’t pay for your services until I get that bag back,” she apologized to the woman still sitting on the healer’s table. 

“No need,” the healer waved away her guilt. “Consider it a kind gift from Kynareth.”

The Imperial’s brows knitted together despite the reassurance. No good deed should go unrewarded, and she could have paid normally.

“Then pay it forward, and spread a gift of Kynarth,” the old woman offered. It would have to do. Marcella thanked her again and set on her way.

The blinding light of mid-morning revealed a place Marcella had never seen before. A cobblestone square paved the ground with a small stream running the circumference. Wooden arches and benches encircled a large, dead tree. People fluttered about here and there, ignoring the cries of a priest at the feet of a large statue of Talos. She smiled. These people are no friends of the Thalmor. Emboldened, she approached the upturned boat hall with her hound at her heel. A staircase lifted a hall above the other homes in the town, painted shields hung on the outer wall like a crown, and a reverent archway framed the two doorways into the structure. This could only be the ‘ancient and honorable’ Jorrvaskr.

She knocked first, not knowing if it was a home to be intruded on or a place to be welcomed. No one answered, but she could hear a lot of hooting and hollering from within. Taking the chance, she opened the door. Immediately Garm lowered his head and growled at the wafting scent from within. It smelled of a hearth, red meat, sweaty men, and dog. It made her wonder if these brutes ever bathed. “Fine,” she groaned, feeling too tired to fight with the dog. “Stay, boy.”

A brawl was on when she walked into the hall. Men and women surrounded the two combatants cheering them on. Off to the other end of the hall, an old woman cleaned up breakfast from the long tables surrounding a massive fire pit in the background of the roughhousing. The pointless violence and aggression put Marcella on edge. What’s more, she didn’t know when to interject to ask for ‘Vilkas’. She stood quietly and awkwardly at the side of the staircase, waiting for a moment to grab anyone’s attention. By the gift of the gods, someone noticed her first. An old, darker-skinned Nord with a white forked beard smiled at her from across the room. He waved his hand and called out to another man, “Farkas! We have a guest!” A few others turned their heads to Marcella, but it was a hulking, long black-haired man who actually approached her. He towered over her, as most Nords did, but his dark war paint around his eyes and stern expression made the Imperial shrink where she stood.

“What do you need?” He asked, not unfriendly. His voice was deep and warm, the only comforting part of his imposing body.

“Oh- uuuh,” Marcella stuttered, her confidence waning without Garm by her side.

“You get jumped on the road?” Farkas interjected before she could pull herself together. Her visible confusion prompted him to lift a finger. “Your face. You look terrible,” he said matter-of-factly with an emphasis on ‘face’. A woman with a hide helmet chortled nasally at the comment.

“Thanks.” She could tell he wasn’t being malicious, but the comment still hurt a little anyway. “No I wasn't Junoed by bandits I was just trying to get-,” she took a deep breath to refocus on her goal, “I’m looking for ‘Vilkas’. Is he around?”

A light of realization came into the Nord’s blue eyes, “Oh, you’re the girl Vilkas dragged in.” Marcella nodded. “He’s out back in the courtyard with Torvar,” Farkas threw a thumb backward towards another set of double doors. She thanked him and quickly stepped out from under the man. He threw a ‘bye’ at her as she hurried away, past the crowd, to the back doors. The brawl had not stopped at all during the exchange.

In the courtyard, she saw two men at some training dummies standing against the city’s wall. A shorter, blonde, bearded Nord and a broader, black-haired Nord in unique steel armor. The other man (Farkas was it?) didn’t specify which was Vilkas. The black-haired one seemed to be lecturing the other over the sword it seemed, while the blonde seemed to not be listening very well. They were swinging large weapons which made her apprehensive. “Vilkas?” She called out from the edge of the porch with chairs and a table. The black hair one turned first, catching Marcella’s eyes with his. They were stark blue against dark war paint, like the other massive Nord, but clearer and crisper. She saw the recognition in his eyes and knew that was Vilkas. He was built like a bear in spring; massive and tall, but leaner than most bear men. The blonde man, who she deduced to be ‘Torvar’, made a noise to acknowledge her as she walked up. Vilkas smiled, seeming pleased.

“Ah! She is alive!” Vilkas announced to the man next to him, almost bragging. He turned to address her next. “How are you feeling?”

Marcella gave a half grimace as an answer. “Alive,” she added. Vilkas chuckled, pleased with himself. Torvar was lazily eyeing her up, completely ignoring the self-congratulating man next to him. His gaze was gross and would leave her chest area. At least, she was still pretty despite what Farkas said earlier.

“Come to thank me, have you?” Vilkas hefted his great sword onto his shoulder, showing off his bulging arms. It was actually charming since he wasn’t standing right over her.

“Yes, well about that. You see- I need- the healer lady told me.,” she struggled working up her nerve. She would have blasted him by now, but those bulging arms and giant swords really made her consider the consequences of this. It was hereby enough to challenge the good standing of a Nord, nevermind they actually did it. Nords and their honor, she rolled her eyes internally.

“Naaaahaha, she’s tryin’ to get some,” Torvar slurred.

Marcella turned red while Vilkas limply swatted the laughing Torvar. The larger Nord was smiling like a man who knew he was about to get his deserved lay. “No-! I-! Shut up I just-!” Marcella exclaimed, tripping over her embarrassment. “I need my things! You need to give me back- I just need-”

“PUPPY!” Torvar garbled loudly, thankfully interrupting the woman from making a further fool of herself. Garm barked from the side of the courtyard, having simply walked around the hall to where they were in the back courtyard. She called him over, endlessly grateful to have her friend back. The frosty dog stood at her feet while she scratched his ears. Vilkas seemed to respectfully stay distant while Torvar patted his thighs and made kissy noises to call the dog over. Garm, taunt and alert, was not impressed.

With her friend at her side, Marcella’s anxiety lifted enough for her to finally ask what she came here for. With a hand on Garm, she explained, “I had a satchel with me before I was knocked out and it wasn’t with me when I woke up. I need it back, now.”

Vilkas’s smile fell instantly.

She grunted frustratedly at his lack of returning her stuff. “Look, keep the fucking coin. Consider it your finder’s fee or whatever, but I need the bag and everything else in it.”

Torvar was stunned and Vilkas too for a moment before exclaming, “What the _hell_ are you on about, woman? I didn’t see anything but you and that dog. Who the hell do you think you are storming in here and calling me a thief?!” The Nord shifted forward in his stance to challenge her claim. Garm immediately bared his teeth, fur standing on end. Marcella failed at hiding her scared expression. Torvar looked completely confused at the sharp turn the situation took.

Welp, this was not going how she hoped. The sheer audacity her foggy brain gave made her think speaking straightforwardly would get her what she wanted. But she didn’t really think through doing it in front of a lesser while the man in question was holding a giant sword would be a bad idea. She had to curb this fast.

“Alright alright alright, you didn’t take it. But you didn’t even see it?” She shook her hands to defuse the tension and make herself an out. 

“Like I said, just you and the dog.”

She sighed deeply. This was a dead end and she just pissed off all these large men. Her hand settled the protective dog at her heel as she thinked. If this man had her satchel this wasn’t how she was getting it back…. _if_ he had it. His reaction broke her resolve somewhat. “Well, where did you find me then?”

He stared silently at her, refusing out of spite it seemed.

“If you didn’t take it, then it’s back where you found me and I can put this to rest. Where was I?”

“Just off the road going towards Redwood,” he huffed dismissively, clearly done now.

Great, Riverwood. In some random shoot off of the road. She’ll never find it on her own. Marcella rubbed her eye to comfort the growing stress. It was a long shot, but her only shot. “Can you take me there?” she asked.

Vilkas huffed in bemusement. “And why should I help you?”

Fair, she thought. “That coin in the bag,” she offered, “you’ll get the finder’s fee. Deal?” Of course she won’t tell him how much is in the bag. That way she can keep some food money on top of this.

Vilkas considered, rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine, it’s a deal. But only after we are done here.”

“Uh hey, that’s alright Vilkas. We don’t have to-,” Torvar tried to weasel out of whatever Marcella interrupted.

“After we are done here.” Vilkas was firm and authoritative towards the other man, despite looking like the younger of the two. Torvar conceded. He then turned that authority toward Marcella instructing her to wait in the hall and he would fetch her when he was ready. She accepted, content she was able to roll that mistake back.

Garm came with her into the hall this time. He resisted, but some dragging and scolding got the hound to finally, reluctantly, follow Marcella in. The brawl had ended, and most of the people dispersed from the hall. The kindly old man from earlier was locked in a jovial conversation with another old man, though his body was fit and strong like that of a younger man. She had hoped maybe to make small talk with him to pass the time but decided to sit on a long bench. She’d pass the time petting Garm, she figured.

“Oh! Are you joining the Companions?” A chirpy, friendly voice came from next to her. Marcella looked up to find a Redgaurd woman sat beside her, grinning widely. Strangely the company made her at ease. Her home country was Hammerfell, and any reminder so far from it made her smile. The girl took her smile as an affirmative and began babbling, “I’d love for another woman to join! Njada is sour at the best of times, and while I look up to Aela, she isn’t the easiest to talk to about non-hunting things and you know I think-“

“Oh no no no!” Marcella gently interjected, “I’m just here to get my stuff back.”

“Oh,” the girl deflated. “Well, they are always recruiting you know. You look tough,” she gestured to all of Marcella’s injuries, “I’m sure they’d take you.”

“I don’t think I’d be much compared to all this muscle,” she gestured with a self-deprecating huff. 

“Oh, that’s just the twins. Athis is more agile than strong, and everyone appreciates his skills.”

Marcella smiled sympathetically, but unconvinced. It was nice the girl was trying to talk her up but truly, she just couldn’t stay. She hadn’t been able to stay in any one place for years, not since the temple of Debella was sacked. She didn’t know exactly where she was, as she just picked a direction and ran. But if it wasn’t the capital of Hammerfell itself, it was not safe.

The Redgaurd read her rejection and looked sad. “Well, if you change your mind…,” she offered, “Just say Ria vouches for you!”

Marcella smiled, encouraged. “Okay. I will.”

“What’s your dog’s name?” Ria asked as she offered her hand for Garm to sniff. He investigated and didn’t mind what he smelled. It was a nice change since the smells of the hall seemed to upset him. 

“Garm.”

“Hi Garmie boy,” she greeted the giant white dog in baby talk while scratching his ear. She actually got a tail wag out of the beast. “And yours?”

“Marcella.” She stiffened at her mistake. Ria’s charm had set her so at ease she forgot. It wasn’t good to leave any trace, any trail. But on the other hand, it was nice to be open.

“So what happened?” Ria started after a brief silence wherein Marcella was busy internally beating herself up.

“Hm?”

“All your scratches. Vilkas found you unconscious, didn’t he? What happened?”

“I was riding, away from… some bandits,” she lied. It was likely enough. “My horse tripped and flung me off. I think I might have caught a branch on my landing.”

“So you were jumped on the road?”

“No. ...Well I mean I guess. But these are just brush scratches, not from fighting bandits.” The Imperial paused, reminiscing what was said earlier. “They don’t look too terrible, do they?”

Ria looked horrified. “No no, Farkas didn’t mean that. He’s a big sweetheart, I swear,” she took a moment to scan around, a little pink. That coast was clear it seemed as she turned back and finished, “He just puts his foot in his mouth sometimes.”

The woman only gave a weak smile back.

“I think your hair is gorgeous.” Ria stroked a small clump of Marcella’s unkempt, deep auburn hair. The woman giggled a little at the compliment.

“Making friends already?” A flat voice droned in front of the girls. Vilkas towered above the two with his arms crossed. 

“Hey Vilkas,” Ria greeted friendly, ignoring the man’s unhappy tone.

“Ready to go?” Marcella asked, slipping back into her guarded state.

“Just follow me.” Vilkas turned to the front doors. He started to walk before she was even fully out of her seat. Ria clambered up to ask to join as well. Vilkas just made an agreed-sounding noise. Garm stayed at the Imperial’s heel. The three caught up to the Nord by the time he reached the top of the stairs. However, his pace was brisk, and not interested in enjoying the walk. The girls lagged behind throughout the journey through the city.

When Vilkas was far enough ahead, Ria whispered to her new friend, “Don’t be too bothered, he’s normally this grumpy.”

“I think he’s just upset I rained on his heroic moment,” Marcella responded in a low voice.

“Why’d you do that?” Ria defended the man, to the other woman’s surprise. 

“Cause I thought he took my bag.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“So you say, but I don’t know him and now I’m out-“

“Are you two done whispering like housemaids?!” Vilkas shouted, fed up. They hadn’t noticed him slow his pace and close the gap.

“Ah it’s nothing Vilkas,” Ria threw back in a tone that was calling him silly. She really wasn’t bothered by his mood.

Marcella, on the other hand, hated to put up with men and their moods. The priests of Debella taught her to not tolerate their snide words, and challenge them. For most men she encountered, wielding Garm as her weapon granted her enough power to shut them up. This man, however, was a beast himself. Instead, she decided to just be snide back. “Feeling left out?”

Vilkas only glared over his shoulder. “Whispering is for thieves and dishonorable men. Just speak of me aloud instead of cowering in low voices.” 

“But we’re not men.”

Vilkas snorted in contempt back.

“I was just telling her you didn’t take her satchel,” Ria tried to wind things back down. 

Vilkas stopped, massaged his eyes in frustration, and turned to Marcella behind him. “Why do you insist- I pulled you off the road and didn’t even bring up a charge for it. That would be a 100 septum job, and I only asked for a thanks and you accuse me of thrift? What even makes you so certain I would have your damn sack?” He sounded equally earnest and insulted. 

“I was out, you are the last person with me besides the healer, you should have seen my stuff and given it to her. She didn’t have it, so it means you should,” she explained, though the reasoning sounded desperate when voiced aloud.

“You hadn’t thought maybe something else happened? That you just lost it? Or someone came before me and took it? Truly, I wasn’t concerned about anything around, I was concerned about the dying woman in the brush! Perhaps I should have left you!”

“I know, I know. I just…,” great despair began pressing down on Marcella as she considered her satchel might actually not be with him, and gone for good.. 

“You said you were riding through the brush before you tripped,” Ria interjected, trying to help. “Maybe one of the branches caught it, or it was flung farther away from you.”

Defeated, Marcella folded into herself as she stood and looked at the ground. “Ok, ok. I’m- I’m sorry. I’ve met a lot of shitty people that wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of someone on the road. Hell, they would have walked right past me.” She finally found the strength to look at the two warriors. The massive Nord wound down with a long sigh. Ria had an awful look of sympathy etched in her brows. “And thank you, for helping me. I just- that bag has everything I own in it.”

He considered her for a moment. “Aye, it’s probably just where I found you,” he offered and seemed to accept her apology. 

“Yeah,” Ria grabbed the other woman’s arm in comfort. “We’ll give it a good search.”

Vilkas resumed the journey making a drawn-out negative noise. “Wasn’t part of the deal. I’ve got contracts and clients to correspond with. I don’t have time to go combing the woods for a bag.”

“Well, I’ll help you search.”

The imperial smiled at the Redgaurd’s generosity. “It’s alright. I’ve got all the help I need here.” She patted Garm’s back who responded with a lazy ruff. “His nose should pick up the scent of my clothes in it.”

“Still,” Ria tapped her cheek just under the eye. “Six eyes are better than four.”

Marcella chuckled at the Redgaurd’s persistence and relented. For the rest of the journey, she took in her surrounding location. Ria made herself and Vilkas (forcibly) busy discussing contracts and matters of their work. Things Marcella wasn't involved with and just tuned out. 

They headed south, according to how the sun hung in the heavens, up out of a great grassy valley. A good view of the city revealed itself as they worked their way up the sloped path. It was stacked with what would be the count’s… well it wasn’t a castle. It was primarily built with wood, crested with dragon heads that looked more suited to the bow of a ship. The outer walls were egregiously maintained, and looked haphazardly built in the first place. They were nothing like the highly structured gothic holds of the western countries.

It looked Nordic. Was this Skyrim?

The grassy valley was populated with hardy-looking bush plants and parched grass. From the vantage of her elevation, she could see elk grazing. The trees the band walked among were tall, thin, and yielded needs. She couldn’t have come that far North East. Evermore in High Rock was closer to Hammerfell to the South than Skyrim. 

“Are we close to High Rock?” Marcella called out ahead. In her observations, she fell behind the other two. She trotted up the path to close the distance.

“We are more south than that,” the native Nord answered. He pointed out far ahead of them toward a snow-crested mountain range. “Two days ride that way you’ll hit the north Cyrodiil border. High Rock is a good week’s ride that way.” He pointed down the valley, but he meant some point far beyond the visible horizon. 

Ria asked her something, but Marcella’s world was still and silent but one word.

What?

This revelation rocked the earth underneath her feet. She felt ungrounded like she could be blown about easily. She shouldn’t have come so far. Even if she ran her horse until its heart burst, she shouldn’t be so East. The woman forced her unease down with a heavy helping of denial. It’s not that far. 

Through the rest of the journey, the woman occupied herself with her furry companion. He was serious most of the time, unlike other dogs one would come across. Perhaps a more recent wild ancestor passed on his stoic disposition. Still, a good stick can bring the puppy out of the old boy. Ria partook in a few throws, but Vilkas seemed to just steer clear. 

They came to a stop on the road, a village just visible at the crest of the foothill. Vilkas turned to the woods and took a deep breath. “It’s just in here. About twenty paces in there’s a clearing with a split tree. Look there.”

Marcella thanked the man again. He shrugged it off modestly, seeming satisfied with the previous display. Still, she made her gratitude known. 

“Good luck. And if you keep having problems with bandits,” the giant man grasped the hilt of his great sword slung along his back, “the Companions can escort you along the roads. … For a fee, of course. This one was one me.” He gave a nice half-smile.

“What about the finder’s fee? You don’t want it?” Marcella asked confused. 

He shrugged with a huff. “By the state of you, it’s a penance. Keep it, you’ll need it more than I if you keep on accusing strangers with swords of theft.” He glanced to Ria, “I’ll see you back soon, you hear? You’ve got work to do.” The Redgaurd nodded with a smile then made her way into the wood. He said his goodbyes then and took leave.

Marcella watched a moment as he walked back down the road. The midday sun leaked through the canopy leaves and showered raindrops of light over him as he walked. What a strange man. She thoroughly insulted him in front of his subordinates and yet.. he ended up taking her apology and showing her kindness? Strange. She felt… a little sad she would never see him again. Wind tugged at his dark hair for a moment. Suddenly, as if he had eyes watching from the back of his head, he turned and caught her staring. It broke Marcella’s strange trance and instead jogged into the wood like she was supposed to do.

Midday waned slowly to afternoon as the two women combed under every bush and patch of tall grass. The great white hound could only pick a sent from the base of the split tree back to the road. There was no trace of the bag or even the horse Marcella 'acquired'. Ria, to Marcella’s praise, found heavy hoof tracks but were only elk tracks upon further inspection. By the time the sun kissed the west mountain peaks, Marcella finally accepted that the bag was gone. She plopped down defeated in the grass and did her best to force back tears.

Ria rounded a tree to sit next to the upset woman. She tentatively put an arm around her. “I’m sorry,” she sympathized. Marcella just silently shrugged and shook her head. There was nothing to say. Garm laid at her feet, sensing her mood. He only looked up with big, shiny yellow eyes in his own form of empathy. The dark skin woman shifted about, an intense look of thinking on her face. Marcella subtly tried to pull away, feeling humiliated by the pity she perceived. She’s been spirited away and left with nothing but she shabby clothes on her back and her dog. 

“Why not stay at Jorrvaskr for the night?” Ria offered, breaking the woman out of her dark cloud. She silently shook her head. It was no inn, and she would not be accepted, she knew. But the girl urged again.

The pale woman put on her best smile she could muster and refused. “It’ll be okay,” she reassured the encroaching woman, but not herself. “I’ll figure something out.” She rolled off the slanted terrain onto her feet to create some distance. “Thank you for your assistance, you can go now. I’ll be okay, just need to do some thinking.”

Ria sat a little stunned on the ground. Marcella was a bit cold, she knew, but this was for the best. The Redgaurd stood, asking if she was sure. She nodded, thanked her, and moved toward the town at the crest of the hill, Garm in tow. Ria stood dejectedly frozen for a short amount of time before calling out a goodbye. Marcella didn’t look to see when she headed off. 

Shadows grew longer across the landscape as the day dragged to an end. Marcella spent the last hours of sunlight foraging for things she could to sell for new fishing equipment, but she only ended up eating it herself. Garm found little luck in catching small prey. The rabbit he managed to catch was so mangled, the woman just let him have it. She flopped exhaustedly down against a rock while the white dog patted down a suitable napping spot beside her. What a miserable existence, she thought. But she was fed to the brim with the kindness of strangers. They only helped her because she was so helpless. She hated that. She felt so small and pitiable. She wished she were more like Garm; strong, self-assured, and fierce. If she were to fade away, he would be absolutely fine. But her on her own? The woman stroked her only friend in the world and looked at the dull grey hair around his mouth. He was getting old, she would outlive him one day. What would she do then?

She shifted her gaze from the dog to the city she woke up in. Her seat on the slope gave her a great vantage point to see the city, walls, and surrounding farms. Flickering lights from the city danced against the growing darkness. A particularly large burn backlit the upturned boat where the Companions resided. 

Maybe… maybe it was time to stop running.


	2. The Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW Garm is actually a mod you can download off Nexus, so that you too can adventure with the goodest boi in Skyrim
> 
> Congrats it’s now a smut chapter

Vilkas barely saw the wood in front of him, but his ax knew where to fall. Chopping firewood was just the mindless repetitive task he needed that evening. His loose cotton shirt draped open to catch the cool evening breeze and give some relief from the hot, late spring day. Or was it just him? The beast blood made his body a burning hearth on the best of days, but it was particularly fired up this day.

The rest of the younger Companions left for the Bannered Mare an hour or so ago. Ria returned from helping that woman looking upset. Apparently, she and the woman he rescued could not find the bag so that woman just left her out in the woods with little goodbye. Torvar and Farkas practically picked her up by the arms when they took her for some ‘cheering up’ pints. Any excuse to drink. The rest followed in a parade of hoots for some real drink, never having received an invitation. Vilkas, however, couldn’t drink tonight. He was burning as it was and a mead glow in his belly would make him burst into flames. So he took some chores as an excuse to stay in the cooling dusk.

 _That woman, that fucking woman,_ his mind kept drifting to her despite the list of practical duties he used to push her out. He didn’t know whether to be greatful he never caught her name so he could forget her. Or was it him not knowing that enticed her to linger in his thoughts? 

He did not need it, he concluded in his mind with a huff and another ax fall. She was curt, rude, and seemed tense and on edge the whole time. When the meeting played out in his mind, he expected her to act like a normal woman: shyly grateful and less fucking audacity. She wasn’t even like Nord women who would have given a hearty chuckle, affectionate punching, followed by a rough battle in the sheets for dominance over the other. But the woman he found off the side of the path was small and broken; like the Colovian songs he heard the southern bards sing in the Bannered Mare. It was almost surreal how he found her, dark red hair cascading around her pale face among the wildflowers, and a delicate look of pain knitted into her eyebrows. 

In the moment he took the situation seriously. He scooped her up and ran to the healers as fast as he could. But after, thinking of it in bed that night, it felt exhilarating. He _was_ the hero of the song, and with such a beautiful woman. Deep down, and never voiced, he always wanted to be that man.Companion work was honourable work but barely felt different than any sort of hire sword work these days. 

_But that fucking woman! <\i> he thought again with an angry swing. It wasn’t as if he expected her to lift her skirts - or breaches in this case. A man can wish for at least a kiss from a beautiful woman before she went on her way. But she called him a theif! _A fucking theif!_ Another swing cracked a hefty log round in two as the man stewed. <\p> _

_How strange she was. Guarded and flighty. He smelled the fear and anxiety rolling off of her. She was not afraid of him, evident in her audacity to accuse him. So what would make a woman like that so afraid? Bag, it was better she left. Her flowery appearance makes how much trouble seemed to be wrapped up. The mystery shall never be solved as she disappeared into the woods just as strangely as she appeared in them. _All for the better,_ he sighed audibly. Hell, he was lucky the dog didn’t give away their secret. Not many loved in the city, and the ones who did always kept a wide berth. That dog seemed to have the same amount of balls his master did. It’s better that she and the dog moved on. Why then did she linger in his mind? Why was the beast blood so transfixed? Why _this_ woman? Another quarter log was thrown on to the concerningly large stack of wood he cut that night._

__

__

A stiff pat to the shoulder jerked Vilkas out of his thoughts. It felt as if someone had placed a hot cooking pan on his shoulder. “Are you alright, son?” Kodlak, the Harbinger, leader, meant or of the Companions asked while he left the searing hand on the young man’s shoulder. Vilkas couldn’t help it. His sensations were overloaded in this heightened state and the Wolf reacted. Like a cornered dog, he snapped his teeth at the old man’s hand. Immediately Vilkas covered his mouth and turned away steaming and in shame.

“Kodlak I’m-“ he started through his fingers. 

The old man huffed, “Mmm worse than I thought.” His accent rolled warm and in the traditional fashion. He shook his head, amused, then called for Vilkas to follow. The younger man did, curled in embarrassment. He felt like a boy again about to receive a scolding. 

Kodlak’s long, white hair shimmered in the candlelight as the two sat together in the study at the end of the living quarters. From a wooden box on one of the shelves, the old man pulled alchemical ingredients in glass jars. Funny, Vilkas never thought him to be an alchemist. Kodlak took one ingredient from each jar and brewed it with the hot water Telma drew.

“Here boy,” Kodlak said while resetting the mug closer to the younger man. “This should ease that blood of yours. It’s an old recipe passed down to help with the worst of it.” Vilkas took it without question. The drink smelled skunky and was spicy to the tongue. It was not pleasant, but he sucked it down anyways with a grimace.

“It’s been getting worse,” Vilkas said between sips.

Kodlak hummed an agreement, “It is the burned of youth, dear son. I would say it was the approaching solstice would rile up the blood, but I think there’s more to it here.” Vilkas shrugged casually, not willing to admit it was indeed something, - someone - else. The old bear clapped a hand on the younger’s shoulder. The drink worked, it didn’t burn so much. “It has to do with that woman, doesn’t it?,” Kodlak said with a laugh. Before Vilkas could try to object, he added, “I was young once. I remember the women that made the hound go mad. It tempers with age, like most things, but that is many years to come for you, boy.”

“What can I do to stop it?” Vilkas asked, hiding his discomfort. It was not as if he was unskilled with women or even unskilled at controlling his Wolf. Yet he sat there dumb about both. He needed to appear strong, and worthy of upholding his vow.

Kodlak gestured as if offering him something in his hand. “The only way, a good tavern wench.” The old man chuckled at the simplicity of it. 

“I fear it would be more of a mauling than anything pleasant for the poor girl,” he said said with some lightness, but the truth of his statement weighed down his words.

Thankfully Kodlak did not joke further. The old man set a hand on Vilkas’ shoulder in a fatherly way and began, “That would be up to you. _You_ are the master of the blood, not the other way around. Those who think otherwise will become lost to it. You are stronger than that, Vilkas. I know this. These things come and go. These woman and their spells do as well. Even normal men can be whipped up by their sight. And just as with the Wolf, you are the master of these desires. You have come far, it will not take you now.”

The young man nodded, encouraged by his mentor’s faith in him. It was closing in on a year since Vilkas and Farkas joined their Harbinger in a vow to no longer give in to the beast blood. Like any caged animal, the beast hounded him to be released every night. “Farkas seems never to struggle so,” Vilkas commented, somewhat jealous of his twin.

“Ahye your brother was a beast before given the curse. He knows himself and rarely doubts his intentions. You should learn from that confidence. But he has troubles of his own, do not doubt that. Confined in him more, it will ease your burden.”

“Asking me to speak of feelings to Farkas is like asking me to confide in fish. No, we connect fine enough with our fists.”

“Of course,” the old man chuckled and Vilkas joined in. 

Vilkas genuinely uplifted. He was in control, and not the blood. He could master the temptations and prevail, he knew. The old man squeezed his shoulder in a show of confidence. Vilkas felt like a boy for a moment, proud.

Suddenly, all the hair on his body bristled and his muscles tensed. A harsh knock rapped on the study door. He knew the smell, and the blood began to boil yet again. Kodlak invited the unexpected visitor in. _That woman._ He held a stern look to hold himself steady. _He_ was the master of the blood. She looked worse than that morning. He could smell her dried sweat, a sweet smell, and a thinly held mask of determination. The damn dog was right at her heel too, of course.

Kodlak cast Vilkas a knowing look, then addressed the woman standing before the two sitting men. 

“Ah, a new face. What is it you are seeking?” Kodlak said in a jovial tone. 

“I wish to join the Companions,” she stated, sounding rehearsed.

A huge wave of laughter burst from the younger man as he threw his head back. He couldn’t help himself, it was the last thing he ever expected from the tiny woman. The white dog growled low in its throat, but the woman quickly commanded it to stand down. When he settled after a moment, the pure anger and indignation beamed from the eyes of the woman into his. 

“Come closer, child,” Kodlak said, gesturing for her. She stepped closer, a cadence of uncertainty in her step. Vilkas did his best to stifle the remaining huffs of laughter as the old man studied the candidate before them. He was probably thinking of the best way to dispel the woman’s audacious notion she could be any type of fighter. The Harbinger nodded and stroked one side of his braided mustache. “Yes… perhaps.”

Another heart “HA” escaped Vilkas’ mouth before he could stop it. “Master you are not serious. I could throw her farther than the rocks in the courtyard! She would be chewed and spit out by the most cowardly of bandits!” He was harsh and biting, but this woman was delusional. He knew what female strength looked like. Alea was the prime representative of a woman’s strength, but even Ria boasted an impressive amount of strength comparative to her size. But this woman. She looked to fall over by a stiff breeze. Only fit to carry water from the wells. There was no shame in a simple life, but those who don’t realize this rush to an early grave.

“I am no one’s master, Vilkas. But we have empty beds for those with a fire in their heart. We judge beyond just appearances, so show some respect.”

“Apologies,” Vilkas said, keeping a stern look to hide his disapproval.

“Tell me your name, girl.”

“Marcella,” she said with a set look. Opening her hand to the side, she gestured to the dog with its ears laid back. “This is Garm.”

 _Marcella,_ Vilkas toyed with the name in his head. It was a beautiful name, not a strong one. It would command no respect from the low scum they cleared on the daily. 

“I see. How much battle have you seen, Marcella?” Kodlak probed. Vilkas couldn’t wrap his head around why he was humoring her so. He kept his mouth shut all the same.

“Enough,” Marcella answered vaguely. She shrugged. “I can handle myself. Garm and I are a team and have traveled a long time.”

“I do not doubt your companion’s strength. I see it in his eyes. But it is you who wishes to join, not him. How strong is your arm?”

The red hair woman clenched her fist nervously. She tried to square her shoulders to look more confident. “I am strong.” She sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than Kodlak. Vilkas was embarrassed for her. Why is she trying so hard to be something she so clearly is not?

The white old man nodded again in consideration. “We shall see. I’m sure you’ve met Vilkas here,” the old man gestured, “he will help determine your worthiness. Boy. Take her up to the yard. Let’s see what she can do.”

He was gobsmacked. Absolutely bewildered. But he would not shame himself to his master again by refusing. “Aye, as you wish,” Vilkas said flatly as he got to his feet. He took the lead in front of Marcella to the yard, Kodlak taking up the rear.

Vilkas’ skin burned hotter than earlier that night. The fearful sweat from the small woman compounded his torture. Where she was once simply desirable to him, she now smelled like prey. But Vilkas was the master, he reminded himself, and he was in control. When the group reached the yard, he tore off his shirt to let the cool nightly wind carry off some of the heat. When he glanced at her to give instructions, he noticed her eyes dart away from him quickly. He had caught her staring it seemed. If only she hadn’t gone and muddled this all up. If only she just accepted what she was. But she wanted to play with the warriors, and he will make no concessions for her. She’ll get what she’s asking for.

“Here,” the man held out an iron sword hilt-first to the woman. “Take a few swings, I want to see your form. And don’t hold back, I can handle whatever you dish out.” She took the sword, but when he let go the tip crashed on the floor with a loud clang. She tried fighting the weight, but couldn’t raise the sword higher than a downward angle. With a deep sigh, Vilkas snatched the too-heavy sword from the woman’s weak grip to swap out. She shrank somewhat into her shoulders, caught herself, then puffed out again with false confidence. The shorter sword he handed her next seemed to be easy enough for the woman to hold straight. He donned his arms with leather armor strong enough stand against the dull blade. Lastly, he hoisted an iron shield from the rack.

Kodlak scraped a chair across the stones to the edge of the porch for the best view. He sat with weight while the two took positions in the yard. The dog followed as always when Kodlak announced, “This is a fight between you two. Tell the dog to sit with me.” The small woman nodded stiffly and gave the order. It took her telling him twice before the beast took a seat next to the old man. 

It was now only man and woman on the small field, lit unevenly by the torchlight. Vilkas could only see one side of Marcella’s face lit in orange as she stood nervously in front of him. “Don’t hold back,” he said after a moment of no action. She spread her feet and slowly wound up a slash, slowly building power. _CLANG!_ Iron met iron when Vilkas effortlessly blocked the telegraphed attack. She sent a barrage of frantic swings from left right left right. Ridiculous, she was aiming for the shield. “ _Hit me!_ ” He demanded among the ringing metal. She hesitated, leaving herself exposed to an easy counter-attack if he was an enemy. The next set of flailings occasionally landed on his arm, barely even likely to bruise. There was hardly any power behind them. When she sliced outwards, the follow-through left her body wide open and Vilkas shoved his shield into the center force of her torso. Instead of stumbling and recovering, she fell hard on her ass. Immediately the dog stood and barked aggressively for his master. Kodlak took a grip on the dog’s scruff. Marcella scrambled to her feet angrily and threw her momentum into the next underwing. It connected with the edge of Vilkas’ shield, shifting the momentum in another direction. Another under swing propelled the small woman forward for all her weight, and the man just stepped aside. The momentum of the swinging sword dragged her forward, catching the ground with her stomach. Marcella lay propped on her arms for a moment catching her breath while the dog barked rapidly and whined. 

“Are you done?” Vilkas asked. Her response was only to slowly stand up again and ready her sword. He glanced at Kodlak to see if he had any say whether or not to continue. He gave nothing but a stronger grip on the dog. “Come on, welp! I need to see more!” Vilkas goaded. She ran at him, sword high above her head as she screamed an unintelligible war cry of girlish fury. _Bad choice again,_ Vilkas thought as he dropped his shield. At the falling arch of the blade, the man knocked the iron to the side and out of the woman’s hand. Marcella stumbled with the sword and stood hunched over breathing heavily when she managed to stop. She was stunned. “You freeze, you die! Get your sword, welp!” He shouted, growing annoyed by the absolute absence of any skill. She scrambled to pick up the sword and wheel around before he was on her. The dull blade whacked Vilkas on the arms a few times but it was evident she was growing tired. A shove with his shoulder when a blow landed and stuck sent the woman stumbling back onto her ass once again. These all should have been so easy to recover from! She hit with the force of a child! She coward at his stance! He loomed over the woman as she was on the ground. The dog’s noise filled the yard constantly as Marcella tried to regroup. When she tried to grasp the sword again, Vilkas slammed a booted foot on the blade. Marcella stared, wide-eyed and venting heavily, up at the man. “You’re not even a whelp,” he said in a low voice, “You’re just a mouse, far too in over her head.”

“ _I’M NOT!_ ” The small woman screamed as she lunged blindly with her shoulder, up into the man’s stomach. He actually stumbled back a little, surprised. But he was ready for the next shoulder charge and moved not an inch. She pushed against him, sliding her feet across the gravel for any traction to _push_. He then heard quiet chanting of “I. Am not. Weak.” In rhythm with the heaving. She was though, he thought, and only looking to get killed. 

Enough was enough. He wrapped his giant arms around the tiny woman, locking her arms to her side and lifting her into the air. She thrashed and kicked and struggled. “Enough! You’re done!” Vilkas commanded. The woman cried a protest and thrashed around harder. Before another word could escape the man’s mouth, the woman smashed her forehead right square into his. Immediately he dropped her and grabbed his forehead. She collapsed into a heap as she cradled her own bruised forehead. “Gods damn you, woman!” Vilkas said pacing to distract from the acute pain.

“I’ve seen enough!” Kodlak announced, lessening his grip on the dog who was still going crazy. It turned on the old man’s arm and gave a bite that would have done serious damage if not for the man’s steel armor. It was only until Marcella breathily called Garm did he release and run back to the woman. The old man approached Marcella on the ground, rubbing her head while the dog licked it. “You’ve never held a sword before, have you girl?” He asked evenly. She lowered her head and slowly shook it, ashamed. He hummed low in his throat, thinking. He turned to the side to look at the younger man. “Vilkas,” he said and the man came to attention, ready for his judgment to reject the foolish girl. “Train her with the sword and shield and we could make something of her yet.”

Both were shocked speechless. Marcella’s mouth dropped while Vilkas' face twisted into outraged confusion. “You can’t be serious!” He began, shaking an open hand at the woman on the ground. “We are not some school! She has no skills and the arm of a child! She is not fit here and will die in the first brush of conflict! She-!”

“So you will _not_ train her?” Kodlak said with a fixed gaze on the man.

Vilkas stuttered with refusals as his brain processed the old man’s intent. He sighed, “Aye. I _will_ train her.” The young man strode angrily to where his shirt hung draped on a table. He turned, with more to say. “But listen here, little mouse. When you're bleeding out in some Talos-forsaken bandit cave at the ass-end of Skyrim, just remember _you asked for this._ ” With that, he flung the gear off, pulled his head through his shirt, and stormed off before seeing Marcella get to her feet. Distantly, he heard Kodlak say something about Tilma showing rooms before he was out of earshot. 

Fuck, he just needed a drink.

The others passed him on their way back to Jorrvaskr, a very drunk Ria in toe. Njada teased Vilkas as he stomped by shouting “WHO PISSED IN YUR MEAD?” To rounds of drunken laughter. He simply kept on.

The Bannered Mare was loud and pounding to his damaged head. _That damn woman_. He pounded pint after pint as the night drew on and patrons trickled out. One of the Nord market women lingered at the bar as others moved on. The woman often flirted with him but he usually paid her no mind. Tonigh, though… tonight he needed to satisfy the beast. To make the thoughts of _that damn woman_ dispel before the long journey ahead. Ysolda, the coy Nord woman finally introduced herself after brushing up against him all night. She will do, he thought. 

They made it to one of the rooms upstairs, hard and fast. When the door closed, he was on her, pinning her to the wood. She seemed to like it, but this wasn’t for her. He took her hot mouth with his, and hoisted her soft leg around his hip to grind the pressure between them. It drew moans from the woman that made him wonder if they would sound the same from _that woman_. Fuck! He wanted her out of his head! Vilkas stripped - what was her name? ...Ysolda? - in a deft stroke that pulled her dress above her head. Her soft skin and ample breasts almost glittered in the candlelight. But he was so pissed, so riled up he couldn’t even enjoy the sight properly. He threw her onto the bed while only releasing himself of his shirt and laces. There was no patience left to be fully rid of his breaches. He took her there, with her ankles at his shoulders and moans heaving in rhythm of his pace. He lost himself in the woman as the Wolf rutted faster and faster until then the Nord woman squealed in delight at their end.

Vilkas huffed as he looked down on the satisfied woman as he stood at the bed’s edge. His mind was empty, clear, until thought, “I’m going to have to see _that woman_ again tomorrow. Fuck.”

Gruffly, he looked back down at the market woman. “Turn over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some edits, I wanted to fix Vilkas’ voice as it was too flowery I guess? I think I developed his voice better later on and I’m just trying to match it now. Also some actual smut, short but more of my original vision? I was just shy before. The point is Vilkas was always romantically fixated on Marcella but she just doesn’t act how he expects her to. I guess he’s in love with what he thinks she should be, not who she is/wants to be.


	3. Summer in Jorrvaskr

Suddenly, arms wrapped tightly around Marcella from the back. She was studying her assigned bed when the other Companions walked in and Ria proceeded to assault her. She hurt enough after that fight with Vilkas, the hug just made it sting worse. Still, she felt bad about how she left things and managed a back pat in return. A sharp _ruff_ broke the two apart and Marcella found Torvar, the blonde beaded Nord, trying to touch a defensive Garm just off to the side. He tried to play it off as if he wasn’t trying to pet the dog and introduced himself.

“I’m Torvar, saw you from earlier today, aye?” He urged with some sort of familiarity. She only grunted distastfully at him, remembering him implying that she was loose.

“Wait a minute,” a Dark Elf with an Eastern accent stepped up, “You’ve just joined? Are _you_ the reason Vilkas was so bent out of shape?”

“I… guess?” Marcella sheeply replied, worried how they might judge her off Vilkas’ opinion.

“I haven’t seen him that pissed off in _ages_ ,” Torvar chuckled, “it’s nice to see the shoe on the other foot and have him squirm for a change.” Marcella thought back to that morning where the blonde Nord was being chewed out.

Finally, the Dark Elf was the first to remember names. Athis, he named himself. He was thin and lean, a big contrast to all the heavy muscled Nord men that made up the majority of the fellowship. He offered a hand - which she took - and he happily explained it was always nice to see a fresh face in the hall. There was one from the group that just walked past Marcella altogether, a Nord woman who grumpily plopped into bed without a word. Athis chided her for her rudeness, but the woman just told him to go fuck himself. Ria was the one to finally name her as Njada. Marcella gave up her own real name to all at last, though it seemed they already knew it. Ria was blubbering it aloud all evening. Marcella apologized for upsetting the darker woman, but she brushed it off as being ok. “Tha’s wut frienz er foooooor!” Ria said with another hug.

There were more Companions, Ria tried to explain and Athis filled in the gaps she missed while he readied for bed. The ‘Inner Circle’ of Farkas, Vilkas, Alea, Skjor, and Kodlak. Njada made a disgusted huff and a jealous mumbled comment about them getting their own rooms. Marcella sneered at the woman’s ungratefulness. She had warm food and a consistent roof over her head, the Imperial thought. _What a brat._

Behind a small dividing screen, Ria was just able to give her new friend a night shift to borrow. The torn-up rags Marcella was wearing were now only fit to mop up the floor, so she accepted the gift. Right after, Ria passed out into her bed diagonally. Athis and Torvar managed a goodnight to the new girl after snuffing the lights from their beds. Marcella’s exhausted body quickly pulled her into bed as well. It was put to a real test that day, and it just needed to rest. She laid in the dark quiet - well quiet besides Torvar’s immediate snoring - and reflected just a moment. She was here, behind large stone walls, in the middle of large muscled men and women with large swords. At last, _this_ was safe. For now.

As she fell deeper into her bed to the dreamscape, the soft pitter-patter of rain began to echo in the hall.

—-

_A young man stood silhouetted against orange and grey smoke that curled horizontally with the freezing wind. Another city-state failed and set ablaze. His fists clenched with rage in gloved hands. The tribes from the far north had been cutting their way to his home for months, but the elders refused to listen to reason. They thought the walls would hold, but now they raged with orange fire amongst the blue frozen land. Only a few other survivors dotted the snow, watching._

_“Hjalti…,” another figure approached the first, a boy barely old enough to have a patchy beard. His face was red with cold despite the many layers wrapped around him. “It’s time to get moving.” He tugged on the man’s arm, and they both turned away from the burning glow to the howling night._

—

Coming out of her dream felt like climbing through garden vines left neglected. For a moment she thought it was a memory of the Temple of Debella, but the inconsistencies dispelled that notion the more she fought to open her eyes. She wasn’t one to dream very much, or at least remember them, but she dismissed trying to interpret the strange vision once her stomach growled.

That morning, Marcella woke up feeling somewhat better. The others seemed to allow her to sleep in, as she was the only one left in the dorm. Even Garm was absent. There was a pile of leather and hide armor sitting atop her assigned chest with a note saying “You’ll be needing these. I have plenty. -Ria”. The Redgard’s generosity made her feel so sick. Truly, she didn’t deserve it. What had she done to make Ria so fond of her? But, one can’t go wandering around a hall full of men with nothing but a shift, so she accepted the garb. The imperial resolved to pay all this kindness back as soon as she was strong enough, Ria and the healer priest… At least to get rid of her feelings of indebtment. 

At the top of the stairs leading out of the lower living quarters, Marcella was finally struck by the interior of the hall. She could see the raw wood beams split with age, but lovingly maintained with oil. The painted accent patterns at the edges or rails and doorways were as vibrant as the day they were first painted. She could feel the generations of souls living and passing through the halls and the history each joist and joining begged to tell. The only piece out of place, a new looking feature was a framed mount with pieces of fragmented ax which hung at the opposite wall of the stairs. She took a moment to study it, as she had missed it while Telma whisked her away to her bed. For a moment she was transfixed with the interactive carvings and elaborate breaks and cracks. It was weathered with a dull finish, but almost hummed the longer she stared at it. Almost like a chorus of men. Something about it dragged her in, until **BOOM!** A great crash of thunder made her jump out of her thoughts a squeal a bit. 

“Ah, the new blood. Did you get your beauty sleep?” Vilkas’s voice hovered from across the hall, mocking. _Divines, what is his problem?_ Marcella thought.

“I need it if you ever want to see my pretty face,” the red hair woman said while gesturing to the scabbed scratches about her face. There was hardly any progress healing them since yesterday.

Vilkas huffed, “The scars add character.”

Marcella made her way to the mostly cleared feasting table. The man had letters and writing materials before him and an old darker-skinned Nord The other chair down. “You slept in today only since it’s raining buckets out. But I expect you to be up with the sun from now on. It is your job to wake yourself.”

“Fine, I can manage. Have you seen Garm?”

“Ah, the beautiful white dog?” The old Nord interjected. Marcella recognized him as the man to first spot her entering Jorrvaskr and call over Farkas. “He seemed restless and was scratching at the door, so I let him out.” _Made sense,_ she thought, he probably needed to relieve himself. She’ll find the dog after food. “Marcella is it?” The old man stood to offer a hand which the woman took. “Vignar Grey-Mane. It always warms my heart to see bright young spirits here.”

“ _She certainly got spirit,_ ” Vilkas mumbled as Vignar showed the woman the leftover breakfast Telma set out for her.

“So,” Marcella said between bites, “what’s the training going to be?”

“Nothing today. It’s been storming since last night and Telma doesn’t appreciate swordplay in the hall.” When Marcella made a face he elaborated, “Swords have a longer reach than fits, and they scuff up the place too. Sure a bench here or there might be broken by a brawl but we have yet to launch a vase like the last sword match. No. No sword lessons today.”

“Free day then?” She said somewhat jokingly, somewhat genuinely. 

“Not so fast, little mouse. You need to work on your strength. What good is learning the sword if you can’t hold one proper? Aye, you’ll be working the forge with Eorlund Grey-Mane today.”

“In this weather?” Another rumble from the sky came to accentuate her point.

“Aye! Eorlund says there’s no better day than a rainy one. Lifting iron and pumping bellows will do good for those skinny arms anyway.”

The woman sneered in response to his insult, but the black-haired brute took no mind. She finished up her food shortly and followed Vilkas outside to the yard. Garm laid under the porch, content and hiding from the rain. He raised his head to his master as she walked by, but refused her call. He was old and tired and was set on sleeping it seemed. He had been tense for days, so she figured the pup deserved a rest. The two moved on to climb through the heavy rain up to the Skyforge. Luckily a giant stone eagle’s wings protected the forge and work area from the downpour.

“I’ve brought you fresh hands, Eorlund,” Vilkas called out over the sound of rain and hammering steel.

A grizzled old man stopped mid-swing to look up. His hair was long and wild, and his beard was tied in a small braid that hung stiffly off his chin. He studied her in his bent posture which met Marcella at eye level. “You must be the new blood Vilkas beat the shit out of last night,” he said after a moment.

Vilkas immediately turned defensive. “She wants to be a worrier, I treat her like any other.”

The old man grunted, unimpressed. 

“Well,” Marcella sauntered past the tall young man, reminding him of her small victory, “It wasn’t so one-sided. I did get a good hit on him at the end.”

“And cracked your own head while at it. It’s not something to be proud of,” Vilkas responded. Marcella gave him a crinkled look. She was proud of it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and added, “I’ll show you how to head-butt properly later, for now just-.” He let out the rest of the air in his lungs, regrouping. “Eorlund. Will you make use of her?”

Only the sound of heavy rain and splashing puddles filled the area for a moment. “Aye, if she wishes,” Eorlund’s voice cut crisply through the noise.

“Great!” Vilkas exclaimed and clapped his hands together. Marcella got the impression he was just glad to be rid of her. He walked to the edge of the shelter made by the stone bird’s wing where a wall of continuously flowing water veiled the yard, then he turned around. “I have other work to attend to. I’ll be out, but find me tomorrow morning and we will begin lessons.” She nodded and he turned off into the rain. Her eyes did not linger this time. 

“Alright then,” she said, slowly approaching the forge, “How do I- do… this thing?”

“You do not need to work the forge just because Vilkas wills it. No companion is above another.”

She floundered a moment, “But he… Kodlak told him to train me. If I shouldn’t listen to him, what should I do?”

“Relax. I only mean to not let him push you around. They forget, they were whelps once themselves. Vilkas, especially, tends to forget himself. Now, do you wish to work the forge?”

“I wish to be stronger. Vilkas says this will help.”

“It can. Come then, new blood. Pump the bellows for me,” the grey man beckoned her over. She obeyed, and the two worked in relative silence. The rain fell on and the rhythmic hammer falls from Eorlund’s tools rang in the space. It wasn’t long before Marcella’s arms grew tired. She tried to press on, but the grey man noticed. He made a comment that storms like these heralded heroes, like Ysgramor and Talos himself, and wondered aloud if it was for a man named Ulfric. The imperial didn’t really know how to engage and they fell silent once again. “Well then…,” he said with a gap for her to fill.

“Marcella.”

“...Marcella. What spurred you into joining the Companions?” He inspected the slowly forming blade, not making eye contact with her.

Immediately she got defensive, tired of being prodded about her worthiness. She wasn’t, of course, but at least if she wasn’t asked about it she could pretend she was better. “Like I said, I want to be stronger.”

“Aye, sure,” he said with a nod, then looked at her, “But there are many ways to do that. Why the legendary warriors of Jorrvaskr?”

“Well… I- Does it matter? I mean that’s my business isn’t it?” She punctuated the finality with a heave on the bellows. The coals roared for a moment while Eorlund stood facing her, his eyes narrow.

“A man’s business is a man’s business, but secrets don’t carry you far here,” he said with a warning in his voice. She went back to bellowing and him hammering. It was that, the rain, and the soft thunder for a while. 

Marcella’s mind had drifted off with the coals, the old man didn’t need them after tempering the blade. “It’s not-,” she began, focusing on the dimming light. The words were hard climbing out of her mouth, but she felt the need to justify. “I’m not trying to keep secrets or be mysterious. I…” Eorlund set aside his blade and approached the girl. She leaned on the bellow while he took a seat on the cooled anvil. She still avoided his face with her eyes. “A couple years back, in East Hammerfell, the temple I lived in was sacked. And all I did was just… sit there. And cower. If it wasn’t for Garm I…” the knot in her throat caused her to trail off. But the coals kept the tears at bay if only she continued to watch them. “I can’t be like that. I can’t always just be… helpless.” She squeezed her eyes shut to will away the assaulting thoughts of being pathetic.

Eorlund shuffled, but she didn’t see him put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, lass.”

The woman jerked her shoulder away and stood facing the man, indignation fueled by self-loathing covering her sorrow. “And I don’t need pity. I’m tired of being a pitiful charity case. Vilkas thinks I’m some delicate woman who will die at the first sight of danger, but I’m not that either!”

“Then what are you?” He challenged.

“...Someone brave.”

He nodded gently, then shook his head with a warm, quiet chuckle. “No need to aim so low.”

She turned away from him and back to the bellows with an exasperated sigh. “Well, when you’re at rock bottom, that’s pretty damn high.”

“I’d say you’ve reached it. Facing a man like Vilkas is daunting to most fighters, let alone a new one. Kodlak told me how you refused to be subdued.”

She shrugged sheepishly, unable to accept the praise. “I had to prove I wasn’t a sad girl on the side of the road.”

“Aye,” he hummed, amused, “Pay no mind to him. He likes to be caught up in the songs and ancient tales.”

“Will you help me prove him wrong then?”

“To humble the young folk? Aye, why not. We’ll start with a sword for you,” he said as he began sorting through iron ingots.

She hovered insecurely behind him. “You’re going to forge _me_ a sword?”

“Aye.”

“But I could barely lift the ones from the yard.”

He waved a hand dismissively as he collected the last materials. “Those are heavy swords meant for the boys, not even forged by my hand, just leftovers from jobs. They tend to think swords are meant to be heavy, and the only way to wield them. Not true. A sword is light, and an extension of your reach. It is unfair to judge a new swordsman with an ill-fitted sword, especially one that weighs less. Pump the bellows, we need heat.” She obeyed, but still glanced at him occasionally in disbelief. “A fine sword, however, will only get you so far,” he lectured while he heated the iron between hammering. “You are smaller, and no matter what you do, you will be physically weaker than most Nord folk in this part of the world. But you can make up for it in skill. Train hard, train every day, and those disadvantages will not even matter. Now come, hammer this a few times.”

—-

The days after were long and harsh. Every morning with the sun, Marcella did strength and agility drills with her new sword. She twisted and shifted the blade along with her hips and feet, cycling through defensive stances. Vilkas was with her every day for the first two weeks; adding more layers to the drills, correcting her footwork, taking her arms to set them in the perfect stance. Despite his stern and strong demeanor, he manipulated her softly. He almost seemed to burn with every slight push on her arms or grasp on her shoulders to demonstrate the proper swing motion. Marcella hated how he treated her so delicately and she hated how some part of her liked it. But she refused to fall into the arms of another. Vilkas was temporary. The Companions were temporary. Garm was temporary, as much as she hated to admit it. A protector will not always be there, and now was the time to truly face that fact. So she pressed on past her body’s cries each and every day. 

Ria was busy on jobs most days, but in the nights she passed as many tips and tricks she could think of to the other woman. ‘Watch out for secondary weapons on opponents.’ ‘Most bandits are all bark and no bite so just keep your nerve and you’ll win out over the green boys.’ Marcella appreciated all of it. Some days a few of the others would come and train beside her with the dummies, some days they were out terrorizing the bandit population of Skyrim. Garm would come and go from some small hole somewhere in the city walls whether to hunt or in heat. She didn’t mind, she knew she was safe and it seemed so did he. On joint training days, Farkas would occasionally try to put a greatsword in the tiny woman’s hand trying to pass on his own lessons, but she could barely get it over her head. One day Torvar tried to show off some ‘lessons for Marcella to learn’ but was quickly shot down once Vilkas caught wind. He told the drunkard to keep his hatchet flailing to himself. 

The temperature rose somewhat day by day and the sun lingered longer in the sky. Marcella rested in a chair with a mug of water when Athis sat in the adjacent chairs. After some warm greetings, the Dark elf began, “So I’ve been thinking. Vilkas have you on this strict strength regiment but I think you would be better off with something a little more suited to people like us.”

“Oh? And what are people like us?” She asked in a teasing tone before taking a big gulp of the fresh mountain water. 

Athis lifted his exposed arm to flex and grabbed his bicep, “Not giant brutes.” They both chuckled in solidarity. The dark man was muscular and defined, but his arms were just not as thick as a trunk-like all the other men. “So, I want to show you some knife techniques that I bet not even Vilkas knows.”

“You don’t think he would use knives?” She asked more jokingly.

Athis scooted in a little closer. “I think they announce their manhood by the length of their swords, those ones.” He stood when she laughed. “I was honestly surprised they let me join, but I’m good at what I do. Come on.”

“Okay, but, I won’t abandon the longsword. Eorlund said the only way I could make Vilkas eat his words was through skill. I’m fueled by spite, you should know.”

“‘Course! Should I piss you off some then?”

Marcella only made an incredulous face in response. 

“Haha, well you won’t get far enough fighting the air. I’ll spare with you to get that practical element in.”

“Every day? You sure?”

“Most every. Might help my technique too.”

After that, he began some simple lessons to quick draw on close targets and better footwork around the massive population of Nords. The days drug on in the summer. Athis’s help made her progress ten times as fast, Ria commented. Marcella couldn’t tell if she was just being too nice. The Redgaurd swapped the days Athis couldn’t spare. The two took the Imperial along to rowdy drinking nights the Mare along with Njada and Farkas, Vilkas occasionally coming along to just coolly sit at the bar. 

Ria always sat next to her in the feasting hall, offering advice. “These men, and Nords in general, don't like to take us seriously,” she explained while leaning over the grease-dripping bird leg being served that night. Marcella urged on her advice with an ‘Oh yeah?’. “You just have to walk in puffed out, like you own the damn place. The normal folk usually respect that. Everyone else? Just hit them with an uppercut,” Ria demonstrated with her clinched put just under her rib cage. “Don’t matter how big they are, it’ll knock the wind out of them. Hurts that Nord Pride n all.” They both giggled.

She felt almost at home, with how warmly they all embraced her. Well, all except Vilkas, Alea, and Skjor. Vilkas was always distant and objective with her; stern like a teacher usually is. Alea and Skjor, on the other hand, were like cats stubbornly refusing to acknowledge she existed. Skjor only spoke to her once in the whole season, just to say, “Kodlak shouldn’t have let you in.” Marcella stopped trying after that. Fuck him, she’ll make him eat those words just like Vilkas will eat his.

As for Alea, the towering dirty blonde with streaks of war paint across a beautiful face, she approaches the red-haired woman out in the yard. Athis and Ria were off on a job that day. Skjor jumped down their throats not too long ago about shirking the busiest season of the year to help the whelp. So Marcella practiced alone on the dummies that morning.

“Well well, new blood. I hadn’t thought you would last this long,” The Nord woman said coolly while leaning against a porch post. “I guess Kodlak hasn’t lost his senses.”

 _She’ll be eating some fucking words too!_ The smaller woman thought.

“You ever shot a bow before?”

“No,” she answered as she swung the sword down onto the straw dummy

“Aye then, whelp. Hand me the sword, I’ll give you a lesson,” Alea said with her hand extended. Marcella was actually somewhat grateful for a change of things and handed over the blade. It was almost sisterly in the way Alea set Marcella’s arms in the correct position. She felt ten years old again by the way the Nord woman had to bend down a little to reach a closer height. It was rather funny, since she was average sized for an Imperial. Marcella set her position and pulled back pretty easily on the string. She grew quietly excited. _Easy! It was easy!_ The drawstring was far too heavy before joining the Companions. It’s why the only protein she ate was fish. “Focus,” Alea set her hands on the short woman’s shoulders. She steadied, breathed in when told, held, and left the arrow loose with her breath. It caught the rim of the thick hay target. “Eh, not close enough. Use your arm to aim, let your finger point to where you want the arrow to hit, and let fly.” It took another five tries for the woman to hit just inside the large bullseye. Alea gave a strong pat on the shoulder at the accomplishment. “Getting there.” Marcella’s smile dropped with the tepid praise. “Keep working and maybe we will be able to bring you on a hunt, new blood.”

Vilkas swung around the corner of the yard to the two women. When Marcella spotted the large man, she excitedly showed off her progress. “Good. Better to be more rounded,” he said tepidly. 

Marcella was annoyed that the great progress wasn’t being acknowledged properly. She wasn’t a helpless twig! Look! Ria and Athis would have been more excited… “I’m getting stronger.”

“Aye, slowly, but aye. Soon you may be even able to match Ria in a fight.”

Marcella immediately rose to defense at the small hint of insult. “Mock me all you like, but never insult Ria. She’s as strong and honorable as the rest of you.”

Alea gave a shout of a laugh. “Ha! The whelp has some guts!” The tall woman gave a nudge on the shorter one’s shoulder. This time Marcella stood stalwart and moved nowhere. “Vilkas are you just going to take that?”

Vilkas raised his hands in a shrugging defense. “I wasn’t diminishing Ria at all. And I won’t discourage her from defending her potential Shield Sibling. Anyway, Kodlak needed to speak with you. When you’re done here, find him an I in the study.” 

“Alright,” Marcella said, turning her attention to the bow. Whether he admitted it or not, it was still an asshole thing to say. So her mood was left sour even after he walked off.

“Well I still need to run you through the wringer,” Alea said to her,, putting her hands on her hips. “Let’s get you onto some moving targets. _TORVAR. GET OVER HERE._ ”

She forced the man to run with a wooden shield across the yard all day, praying loudly to Talos Marcella’s aim got good. The sun fled on into the western sky by the end of the training. She had hardly noticed the time passing. Vilkas was chatting to Kodlak when Marcella finally went to look for him, much like when she first came to join. He gave her only a glance when she walked in, as the two men were wrapping up their conversation. His eyes burned before, but now she noticed they were always guarded. At least it was a marked upgrade from pity. 

Kodlak, on the other hand, was always warm like a father. He stood and gave a heavy pat on the woman’s shoulder. “Just the gal we’ve been waiting for! Vilkas has been telling me all about your progress,” Kodlak said in a booming voice.

“I hope it’s only good things.” She glanced down at the sitting man. He only returned a small incline of his head. She really couldn’t tell whether that was bad or good.

Kodlak turned her at the shoulder and led her away with a hand at her back, “Aye lass, you’ve stuck to it and made a swordsman of you, I believe. I’m proud of you.” 

_Proud?_ Marcella looked up at the white old man, doe-eyed like a child. She turned her head back with a smile to see Vilkas’ reaction. His mouth twitched up in would could have been a tiny smile, but the rest of his face was blank and guarded. Not being able to read him annoyed her. But, then again, he _had_ praised her, even if it was in her absence. She’ll take that, she guessed. Kodlak continued to lead her up out of the living quarters while Vilkas stayed behind.

“Where is that dog of yours?” Kodlak asked in his deep accent while surveying the feasting hall. Farkas and Athis were at it with fists this time, Njada, Vignar, and Ria cheering them on this time. “It’s time you learn to fight with him.”

“Why? I thought you wanted me to fight my own battles?”

He smiled down at her with his twisted beard braids. “I didn’t want you to use him as a crutch. But a dog like that, one so loyal and devoted to you, that is a great boon. It says something about your willpower, having him trained like that. Together, I think even Vilkas would struggle to match you.”

The praise was overbearing. Such an honorable man shouldn’t be saying such nice things. She didn’t train Garm all that well, he has such a mind of his own. She sunk somewhat into her shoulders, but the old man encouraged her on. When they exited the hall, the woman noticed how much colder the air had gotten. She gave a sharp whistle that rang out over the square with the dead tree. Garm turned from the children who were petting him and ran smoothly to her. He licked her face when she knelt down to him, but a fallen leaf cracked under her knee. Summer was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Training montage! I wanted to really flesh out the other Companions that often go ignored in lot of people’s fics. Like Marcella really does belong there. 
> 
> [edit] So made a few changes that connect better to the previous chapter and the coming chapters. Some minor issues that popped up on a read, and a better reason to fixate on Wuthradd. Aparrently it’s just a thing that Marcella is super into architecture lol.


	4. The Job

Finally, a free day! Well, she seized the opportunity. Previously, Kodlak took his turn training her this last week with Garm, but the Harbinger was nowhere in sight that dawn. No one else was up, as usual, and it looked like Vilkas grew used to sleeping in as well. So she snuck - well casually walked - out to actually see more of the city other than the straight line to the Bannered Mare. Her dedication to training left her far too exhausted for much exploring and her determination to prove she wasn’t a slacker to Skjor and Vilkas prevented her from straying far from the hall.

But everyone reasonably needs a break, right?

Garm joined her as soon as she reached the stairs down to the upper square. He still refused to join her inside again since that first night. It was an odd moodiness from the dog. But his thick white coat protected him and the nights were relatively warm this summer, so she knew he was fine. Although when winter hits… 

He'll get over it, she concluded.

Walking in the crisp air, Marcella took a deep breath and enjoyed the quiet. The town was still sleepy at this early hour. Only one or two merchants readied their stalls in the cool dim light. Garm immediately sauntered over to a wood elf’s stall where he was arranging meat wrapped in paper. The dog peeked his wet black nose over the edge of the counter to beg. Immediately, she rushed over and pushed the dog down. “Down! Bad boy, I can’t afford any of this,” she scolded him. Garm shrunk his head into his white mane, confused from the rare scolding. The Companions fed them and housed them, but no money-making opportunities were ever offered. Whenever she asked Farkas for some simple work, he just said the same thing over and over: “Vilkas says you can’t work yet.”

“So _you’re_ the one who owns Frosty?” The elf at the stall asked as if he solved a giant mystery. 

“Garm,” she corrected, bent over and roughly petting the dog. “I’ve been tied up with the Companions. He hasn’t been bugging you has he?”

“Actually my friend and I have been trying to get him to come home with us,” he said with laughter at the edges of his voice. She smiled politely but really didn’t like the idea of someone trying to take her dog. “But no, he’s been great.” The elf pulled off a piece of raw meat from an open parcel and called the dog to take it. Garm waited obediently on Marcella’s word to take it. “Since he’s been hanging around here, I haven’t had any trouble with scavengers. He’s welcome any time. And for you? Would you be interested in any game? Rabbit haunch, pheasant, crab meat? All fresh caught.” He went through his whole spiel while patting Garm over the counter.

She politely rejected the merchant. Again, no money. She said goodbyes to the elf only to be caught by an old, wrinkly woman. She claimed she was the wife of Eorlund and heard a lot about the young Imperial with a white hound that showed up one day. It made her turn red with embarrassment. The old woman relayed the story in a far more epic way than how it truly played out. Still, she was warm and kind, so the young woman humored her for a short time. The small talk was nice. Marcella actually felt like a person, walking about and acquainting herself with others. It had been a very long time, even before the training. Acquaintances were the ones that pointed pursuers down her trail. Now, however, she had allies and could fight, so now she could be… normal.

Marcella strolled aimlessly down the cobblestone road towards the front gate to continue the touring. She watched as folk began to wake and open their shutters. The first golden slivers of sun rays peeked over the mountains. Long dried-out grass between small stone retaining walls danced in the wind. Behind the smithy and around a bend, a squat cottage spat out an ancient, sour-looking woman with her morning pipe. A wood elf bursts open his second-story shutters and flung semi-wet sheets to dry out the window while looking annoyed. Garm ran ahead to greet a little Nord girl with her mother following behind. From a finer home, a little Redguard girl with an empty pale came out to fetch water from the well. Right off to the side of that scene, out a rickety back door, Vilkas did his best to slink into the morning shadows, clothing obviously hastily put on.

Marcella froze mid-step, staring in shock. 

That… _absolute bastard!_

She took the impression he was somewhat sweet on her, in a quiet way, past all the bitter annoyance her existence in the Companions gave him. It was somewhat charming, at first. Until it hid away in place of the stern teacher. But, turns out, this asshole has just been playing the field. Whatever delicate woman fell into his bed first. She shouldn’t have expected more from a man. 

Vilkas turned around as if alerted by her enraged stare alone. Only a couple of starting sounds escaped her mouth before the man rounded on her and dragged her by her arm, out of the street to a more private area blocked from the sun. He bent down to her level and through gritted teeth demanded, “What the hell are you doing here? What did you see?”

“Right paranoid you are today,” she shot back attempting to struggle out of his grip, unsuccessfully.

“Answer!”

“By the Nine! Let go of me!” She pried at his fingers and he released. “I don’t give a shit who you sleep with, Vilkas.”

His face turned red for either rage or embarrassment. “I wasn’t- “

“Don’t call me an idiot, Vilkas,” the small woman said with bravery that came from seemingly nowhere. Maybe it was because he didn’t have his sword as he usually did. At the very least, it was not because she felt betrayed in any way.

The Nord huffed and put a finger in her face. “You will breathe not a word of this,” he said. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, he was acting ridiculous. Vilkas‘s face scrunched harder and tried to distract from the topic. “You should be with Kodlak right now. Is that why you’re here? Shirking your training?” 

“What‘s it your business? Since we are keeping secrets here.” They were all up in her business when she wanted to keep things to herself, now privacy was respected?

He leaned back and crossed his arms, pulling himself out of the vulnerable position she caught him in. “It’s my business when it’s my whelp.”

“You should worry more about where you’re putting your cock than about me,” she said with narrow eyes. Before she even realized he’d moved, his hand grabbed her face under the chin. His single-handed grasp on her cheeks caused her lips to purse up like a fish.

“And you better mind your mouth,” he said low. It made her shutter.

Then she remembered his loins were still wet from another woman. She smacked his hand away in disgust, and it fell away with little resistance. She squared to him.

“You’re still avoiding answering,” he reiterated. 

“I thought no Companion was the boss of another,” she barked, “I can do what I want, and I want a damn break.”

“You’re not a Companion yet.”

She flung her hands in the air in defeat and turned away in disbelief. “ _Because you won’t let me!_ ” She said, almost shouting. Garm must have heard as he came traipsing around the corner. His smiley, floppy-tongue puppy face fell immediately in the presence of Vilkas, as it usually did. _At least he agrees he’s an asshole too,_ she thought. The man ignored the white dog entirely in favor of jumping into a lecture.

“To become a Companion you must prove your valor in a trial, and a member of the Circle must bear witness to it. After that, the Harbinger determines if the act of valor proves the whelp’s worth. You must earn your place. No morbid curiosity from the Harbinger will help you then.”

“So all that training means nothing? No.” She shook her head, thought a moment, then stepped up with a puffed chest to the towering Nord. “Give me a trial, I’ll show you.” 

He leaned down, looming just above her head and getting right in her face. He spoke low and deep in his chest. “You’re a presumptuous little girl, aren't you,” he said. It almost sounded like a threat. Garm interpreted it as one and began growling with his ears back. Marcella didn’t stop him. Instead, Vilkas straightened out and Garm backed down. “The Harbinger, and the Harbinger alone, assigns trials. I only give out jobs.”

“Fine,” she conceded, reminding herself to ask Kodlak instead, later. _He_ had faith in her, why didn’t Vilkas? “Give me a job, I’ve earned it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not ready.”

She stuck a finger in his face. “You know, I think you’re trying to sabotage me. Trying to hold me back until I get frustrated enough to leave. That’s your whole plan. You never wanted me here in the first place. What a brilliant, two-faced strategy from an ‘honorable’ Nord. I’m sure swindlers would be impressed.”

That one struck a deep nerve. A throbbing vein became visible on the man’s forehead as his hands slowly clenched. Marcella thought she could hear his teeth grinding. But the man refrained from trying to get in her face again, no doubt because of her fluffy guardian. Vilkas huffed while strumming his fingers against his leg, thinking. 

“Fine,” he finally said in an angry tone. “Have it your way. I’ll find a job worthy of your new skill.”

Marcella smiled a small smug grin. She actually won. Spreading her arms wide, she finished with, “That’s all I ask.”

-

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” the woman said in the most hateful tone he heard from her yet. Vilkas stifled his laugh as they stood before Sabjorn the Brewmaster of Honningbrew Meadery. He was a sour-looking, middle-aged man in a ratty apron. Vilkas was lucky he overhead Sabjorn loudly grumbling his woes outside that morning when he was cooling off from the altercation with Marcella. 

“I just need you to get rid of the skeevers in my brewery and keep quiet about it,” the Brewmaster reiterated impatiently. He narrowed his eyes at the woman. “Or are the Companions too good for simple honest work?” 

They in fact were, Vilkas knew. The companions were meant to do valorous deeds, not exterminate rodents. But for this whelp, this Mouse, it was a perfect fit. Marcella didn’t agree, as evidenced by her scowl and crossed arms. No doubt him forbidding Garm to come added the perfect sting to his ploy. The Nord clapped a big hand on the woman’s far shoulder and in an exaggerated - for him - tone said, “Not at all, sir. This one will get right to it. You’ll be clean and clear before sundown.”

Marcella kept her tongue until they were privately in the meadery’s basement. It was dim and dank, only lit by a thin window high on the wall and a weak torch. When the door clicked shut behind Vilkas, she rounded on him, her eyes as fiery as her hair. “ _This is not what I meant!_ ” She seethed.

“Work’s work, little girl. Or is the Mouse afraid of rats?” 

She looked like her head was about to pop off. It was adorable how wound up this had gotten her; like a small fluffy creature running in circles and raving. 

“If you’re not up to it, we can return to Jorrvaskr. Your parries need work, anyway,” he said resting his hands on his hips. But all of a sudden she didn’t rise to it. He saw a slow wave of cold, spiteful determination wash over her face. A deep internal sign drew a gentle “Fuck” from him. Truthfully, he had hoped for her to just give in. Hanging around a dirty basement that polluted his nose with foul smells was not what he wanted to waste the entire day on. 

Their attention was jarred away when a scruffy skeever hissed sharply at them. The woman drew her sword, but only poked at the vermin until it scampered away.

“You’re meant to kill them,” he told her. She shot him a sneering look.

“Yes, I could kill every rat here, but they’ll just come back if we don’t get the nest,” she said, stating the obvious. When he didn’t add what she seemed to have wanted, she continued, “If I scare them, they’ll scurry back to whatever hole they got in from. Then we get rid of the source.”

A decent strategy, he thought. Most whelps would have just hacked away at anything they saw, but his guild tended to not attract the most strategic-minded hopefuls. But he preferred the spirited fools to… whatever this woman was. Marcella slowly walked the perimeter, past crates, and desks, tapping the tip of her sword on the dapple-stone floor. A few skeevers hiss and retreated to the shadows, but a particularly large one jumped and snapped back. The woman squealed as she swung her sword ungracefully into the large rodent. It made Vilkas laugh.

“Aren’t you going to help here?”

“This is _your_ job. I’m just here to supervise.” _And revel_ , he didn’t add. She scrunched her face at him for the millionth time. It made him miss her original shyness. 

“You mean babysit.”

He shrugged, but it was more of an admission than a dismissal. She just rolled her eyes in response. After circling most of the room, she stopped at a rough part of the wall. The woman picked at it then made an intrigued ‘huh’ noise. It was enough to draw Vilkas over. She was crouched down, hand held in front of a hole dug past the wooden panels supporting the basement into the earth. Unprompted, she explained, “It’s drafty, and real echoey. I think there’s a bigger opening than we thought.” _‘We’_ , he inwardly dismissed the sudden comradely from the woman. Still, he finished her train of thought.

“A cave,” he said. She nodded without looking up. Then she started pulling boards. As the aged wood fell away, the foul smell grew stronger. Echoes of dripping water bounced off the stone walls, suggesting a size far beyond what skeevers were capable of crafting. Finally, Marcella opened a hole just large enough for Vilkas to barely fit through. When she asked the man to hand her a torch, he obliged expecting a quick survey of the opening. Instead, the small woman slipped in and her tapping footsteps bounced off the cave walls. The sounds stopped, then grew louder. Her fair face popped out the opening soon after.

“Aren’t you coming along?” She asked.

He only stared down the hole reluctantly. The smell was truly repugnant, and he didn’t actually think she would be so dedicated to completing such a lowly task. 

His silence prompted her to speak again. “You’re not intrigued by a giant cave in a man’s basement?” 

“Not particularly.”

She scoffed and returned to spelunking. Vilkas listened to her footsteps go back, and back, then stop short altogether. By the sound of it, this cave was long and winding, much like ancient burial sites. Odd something so large would be missed. The silence persisted which began to make him antsy. He saw only the weak suggestions of light when he glanced in. _Bah, the woman will be fine_ , he reassured himself. _It’s only skeevers and a child can handle them._

But the cave was very strange. How could it be so large and behind the meadery’s basement walls without the owner knowing? Who made it? What else was in there? These questions and the persisting silence made him jitter in place, though it hadn’t been very long. With a deep sigh, he swung his greatsword off his back and squeezed through the boards.

“Marcella?” He called not too loudly. A distant, echoey ‘over here’ came back to him. His wolf blood allowed him to use the tiny amount of light to navigate clearly enough to see the sharp bend shortly ahead as he made his way to her. A few skeevers hissed at him, but he kicked them away. The vermin skittered quickly down the route. Finally, he reached the woman, studying the side of the cave with the hilt of her sheathed long sword in one hand and the torched raised high in the other. A few dead skeevers laid at her feet. She glanced sideways at him and smirked, but returned to looking at the wall.

“What in Talos’ name are you doing?” He asked, pissed off that he let himself worry.

She smirked again while peering through the corner of her eye. “You know, I think that was the first time you used my actual name.” He narrowed his eyes.

“Daft woman, if I knew you were just playing with rocks I wouldn’t have come into this dank hole.”

“I’m surprised, I got the impression you liked to explore many a wet hole.” Her meaning was as dripping as the walls around them. 

“Careful now, you’re beginning to sound jealous,” he shot back knowing it would get a rise out of her. She turned, looking wonderfully deflated but hiding behind an unimpressed expression and crossed arms.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, annoyed.

“Is that why you stopped? You missed my company?” He teased, delighted in the reaction it pulled out of her. 

“Psh, you came of your own volition convinced of my incompetence. I was just investigating what could have made these walls.”

“And have you discovered anything?”

She looked longways, an unsure expression betraying that, in fact, she learned nothing. 

“Well it seems your incompetence has been proven,” he smirked. That blew the fuse. She shoved him, though he went hardly anywhere. 

“I am sick of your doubts and back-handed tactics. I know this whole thing wasn’t meant to let me prove anything. But enough of the bullshit passive-aggression,” she threw down the torch and pulled her sword, “Let’s settle this now. I want a rematch.”

He blinked, not at all impressed. “No,” he simply said. Firstly he didn’t care to fight her and secondly, the narrow halls would not even allow full range of either of their weapons. 

“Too late!” She announced and took a practiced swing at the armored man. Of course, because the cave limited where she could swing, he knew exactly where her arms would fall. He easily caught her wrist, twisted it, and caused her to drop the sword. It clanged loudly on the ground alongside her frustrated growls. She grew feral then, kicking just like the last time. And he grabbed her and lifted her just like last time. And just as before, she tried her tactic of head butting. It had worked before, but she forgot he had a memory as well. Leaning back only offered the woman the wolf crown on his armor to jam her head into. Luckily she was smart enough not to crack her head, but thrash she continued to do.

“Settle down you damn woman,” he commanded.

“No!”

He was able to twist her around. She tried to take the opportunity to escape and score a strike. But the Nord’s strength won over, and he drew her in again and doubled over, completely restraining her. He was very glad for the barrier of steel and leather between them. The wolf stirred at holding her over so much of his body. She still tried to shake free of him. He was so sick of it by then. “Damn woman,” he grunted between her struggling growls. “If I let you go, will you stop?”

“No,” she grunted with another push that swayed them both. _Damn woman._

He sighed heavily. “If I teach you something, will you _postpone_ the fight?”

She stopped a moment, considering. “Fine,” she said at least. He released and it took falling to her knees to regain balance. After sheathing her sword and both brushing off, Marcella stood expectantly with her hands on her hips.

The man sighed and rubbed his eyes, thinking of the quickest lesson he could give. “The headbutt,” he landed on, reminded of her bad form. “In the future, don’t aim for the forehead, it’s the thickest part of the skull,” he said tapping his own forehead.

“I’m sure yours is certainly thick,” she jabbed. He ignored it for brevity’s sake. He wanted out of the god damn hole.

“Aim for the nose,” he tapped his own in demonstration, “The bones in your nose are soft. It’s why skeletons and Draugr have none, they fade away.”

“Oh, it's called cartilage.”

“Whatever it’s called, aim there. It will cushion your own head and make them easily bleed. If you’re lucky and get a good angle, sometimes you can send the bones into their brains. There, are you satisfied?”

She stood and seemed to mock consider, much to his distress. “Well only until I get to test it on you. But we’ll save that for the rematch.”

“As you wish. Now shall we _finally_ finish this damn job?”

She stepped aside and offered him the lead with a bow - though the bow was more to pick up the torch. “After you, _boss_.” They continued on, deeper into the cave.

Just up ahead they saw warm light and the shuffling sounds of someone frantically moving things. _The culprit._ At that moment he was glad he went with the whelp. Who knows what kind of crazy lives in a cave under a meadery. They stepped forward slowly, drawing weapons.

The wolf sensed it first. The quick snap of a trap and the whirl of air as some trap came swing at Marcella’s face. His strong arm caught the crude bolder tied up with rope just before it smashed into its target. She gasped. A loud hissing ‘shit’ came from the crazy man, and Vilkas knew their surprise advantage was gone.

He shoved the woman behind him and confronted the man just around the corner. He was thin, in tattered robes, surrounded by candles, books, and filthy skeevers, and frantically shaking a vial of something. Before Vilkas could say anything, the ratty man threw the vial at the Nord’s feet. When it shattered a wretched smell assaulted Vilkas’ senses, and the skeevers turned feral.

“He’s a goddamn alchemist!” Marcella shouted while beginning to charge as Vilkas swung at the vermin. Luckily Vilkas caught his elbow and shoved her back. She wasn’t ready for this. “Quit it! I got him!” She yelled again trying to pass the large man in the narrow space. VIlkas cleared the wave of dozens of enraged rodents and began to advance on the alchemist. But another foul cracked vial halted his progress. Marcella kept trying to get around him, distracting him somewhat. “MOVE! HE’LL GET AWAY!” There was nowhere to go but crawl up the wall, and that’s what the alchemist did. The ratty man was also tying a cloth around his face and shaking up another vial, this one bigger. In great sweeps, the Nord Companion dispatched several disgusting, mouth-frothing skeevers, until none remained in their path. But it was too late then.

Glass cracked on the ground shooting giant puffs of green. It burned his eyes and caused both of them to cough and drop their weapons. Marcella fell first, but Vilkas fought it. He took three heavy steps toward the alchemist with the intent to strangle the life out of him. The coward still shimmied up the wall out of reach. The gas began pulling the great Nord to the ground, but the wolf refused. He had no control over it, only a will to survive and stay awake. The alchemist’s eyes grew wide and horrified. “You’re a-“ was all Vilkas heard before he passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edit] wow going back over this, there was very little to change. I think I did the teasing pretty well. I didn’t expect this thing to turn into an arch but it’s a pretty solid opener for the adventures of these two.


	5. The Silver Fort Part 1

It took her a good few minutes to pull her heavy eyes open. The harsh light of a torch contrasted with deep shadows around all corners. By the Divines, her head felt heavy. So heavy, she wasn’t able to feel afraid of her missing sword or the locked bars she was trapped behind. Caged. But she just wanted to lie down some more. Heavy shoes echoed down the hall from the darkness and soon began to approach.

“V-Vilkas,” she only managed to whisper, remembering a cave and remembering the large man. The only reply she heard was a nearby booted kick to someone’s body followed by a girlish yelp.

“Goddammit, Rodrick!” a deep, orc-like voice said, “I told you if I caught you sleeping on duty one more time, I’d kick your ass.” Marcella saw an imperial looking man stumble into the torch’s radius; the orc loomed just at the edges, cracking his knuckles.

“Hey, hey! I was just dozing ok? I was on the night shift, give me a break!” The small man pleaded with his hands in the air. He quickly glanced around - looking for help, Marcella supposed - and caught her sleepy eyes. “She’s up! Look!” The Orc stepped into the light, then to the bar, and finally bent down to match Marcella’s level. He rested his wrist on an iron cross beam of the cage while he studied the woman.

“Mornin,” he said, finally. Her foggy state only allowed knitted eyebrows in response. He seemed to be searching her more for… something. The other man - Rodrick? - finally collected himself and approached the bars. “She one of them?” He asked after a short stare-off.

“Well, she doesn’t wear the armor, and her eyes don’t glow, but she had a Skyfordge sword,” the Orc mused without breaking eye contact with Marcella.

“Miss, you a Companion?” The standing Imperial asked outright. She considered slowly what the correct answer would be, not once considering offering them the truth. When she couldn’t think of something fast enough to sound like truth, she dodged the question altogether.

“You kidnapped me,” she stated accusingly. It was answer enough as to why she would divulge nothing to them.

“Not true,” the Orc said, lifting his finger matter-of-fact-ly.

“If anything we saved ya. That alchemist gave me chills,” the Imperial added.

“Ingvarr insisted on taking you as well, but had to lock you up as a precaution,” the Orc elaborated as if she should know who he was referring to. “We wanted to make sure you weren’t one of _them_.”

Marcella made a skeptical noise, but her mind began to clear. Being unaffiliated with the Companions seemed like the proper path to follow. “No,” she answered finally, “Well not entirely. I was a hopeful but hadn’t been accepted yet. I’ve only really been there a week.”

“Lucky we got to you first,” the Orc said with a huff and a creeping smile from someone who knew a delightful secret. “You know what they are, don’t you? The Companions?” She only offered oppositional silence; burning curiosity conflicting with loyalty. “Those boys are werewolves. All of them.”

Her reaction was deep confusion at first, then it set in. The smell of dog, Garm’s aversion to the Hall altogether. But they all seemed… normal? Normal for feisty warriors she guessed. But then again, she had never spent time with feisty warriors. Perhaps she was too preoccupied to notice; notice the eyes, notice innocent comments, notice how they sniffed the air. By Debela… 

“Ingvarr says they defile the ancient ground of Jorrvaskr with Hercine’s curse and have been there for a couple centuries. It’s what makes them so fierce, so deadly,” the Imperial explained absently as if telling a folk story. But this was true, wasn’t it? The Orc took over after.

“They hide in plain sight, fool the good folk of Skyrim into giving them gold, then feed on them. If you kept on they would have turned you, or worse, fed on you when they got you alone.”

Ria’s smiling face flashed before her; then Athis flexing his arm at the porch table, laughing. All of them?

“And you?” She was able to muster. “Who are you to know so much? And claim you’re helping me by locking me in a cage?”

The Orc huffed and stood, adjusting his hide armor over a plain shirt. “I’m Gormmok gro-Bro and Rodrick Salvious here. You found yourself with those who wish to protect Skyrim from bloodthirsty monsters. The Silver Hand. Whatever you sought from the Companions, you will find tenfold here.”

She shifted on the ground to a cross-legged position as she thought. “Quite a pitch coming from some on the outside of a locked cell,” she said.

Gormmok shrugged as he stood. “Had to see if you were a werewolf.”

“And the verdict?”

Gormmok said nothing but took the keys from Rodrick’s belt and unlocked the door. The old iron wailed when the door opened and the Orc beckoned her out. “We will have to take you to our leader, Ingvarr the Bear, for a little talk, then you’re free to go. Unless you’re interested in staying.”

“Probably not, lest I learn you’re all truly a pack of goblins,” she joked with little mirth. It was more to set them at ease around her, while she kept her defenses high. It worked, and the Orc laughed while the Imperial forcibly giggled along, as if he didn’t really get it.

“Ha, come on then. I’m sure Ingvarr will be interested in meeting you,” Gormmok said and began leading down the hall with the torch from the wall. Rodrick urged her on from behind when she did not follow immediately. She started her pace reluctantly, as the halls were too narrow to slip past either of them without them catching her.

“Wait,” she said, hiding the pleading fear growing in her voice, “I’d rather just leave. I thought I had a choice.”

“Is that what I made you think? My bad, you don’t.”

——-

Cold, stinging water slapped Vilkas out of his restless sleep. He had to whip his dark, dripping wet hair out of his face to get a proper breath. Divines, he was fucking freezing! His beast blood could heat a home in winter, but the water on his soaked frame caught every draft and whisked it away. When he tried to draw his arms in to hold onto any heat he could, he found his wrists shackled above his head.

“Ha! That got ‘em up,” a scruffy Nord man before him said while gripping a dripping bucket. Several other men laughed at Vilkas’ expense. The water on his skin could have steamed from the rage burning through the man, and he attempted to lunge from the ground without thought. Of course, he was stopped violently by the chain connected to his wrists. He sank, shivering, to his knees once again as the rabble laughed harder around him. “Stay clear,” a voice rang out from the side, “He’s a lively one.” 

The wolf inside snarled and gnashed at the whole insult, but the man refused to give in; to break his vow. _I... am... the one in control,_ he repeated to himself with heavy, chattering breaths. He looked back up from concentrating on the rough stone floor to a large yellow face that hovered just inches away, filling his nose with a stinging perfumed scent. The wolf’s force flew out of Vilkas before he could withhold it and he gnashed his teeth at the High Elf. The yellow figure jerked back onto his ass and shielded his face with his arm. The men laughed once again. Seven of them in total, he could smell. He smelled stone and soot and burning skeever. The light from fatty touches was uneven, not quite filling the corners of the room. He could smell heated silver far down the halls and the foul tiny creatures that lived in the walls. But the one thing he couldn’t smell was Marcella. 

That could be a very good thing or a very bad thing. Perhaps she didn’t fall into this mess with him. By the Nine, he hoped she didn’t.

“Oi! Move, dog!” One of the seven shouted while aiming to stomp a boot into the kneeling Nord’s face. Vilkas was ready, though, and pulled the small target that was his head out of the way. The man stumbled forward from the momentum which presented his side for Vilkas to slam what little body he could forward into him. The man crashed hard onto the stone at the feet of the seated elf. The others laughed even harder and jeered at this one’s expense as he tucked tail. 

Only one did not join in the merriment. This man, undeniably Nord, towered far above the rest of the men, even the other Nords. His brown hair, graying halfway as if it turned in the last few years, was gathered in a knot at his chest while his wavy hair brushed the tops of his shoulders. Most notably, the man’s face was raked mid-forehead to left cheek in nasty scars, with mirrored painted red streaks on the other side of his face; both coming together as diamonds at the forehead. He approached calmly forward, kneeled at the elf, and rested a veiny hand on the elf’s shoulder.

“These are not wolves to be taken lightly, my friend,” he said in a warm, deep tone and a traditional Northern accent. It was almost Kodlak-like in the way this man acted, and it disgusted Vilkas. He knew who these people were; the only people who could know his other nature. 

Vilkas spat violently at their feet. “Silver Hand milk-drinkers!”

“Such a funny expression, you Nords,” the elf commented as the tall Nord helped him to his feet, then dusted off his ornate robes. Mage, that one was. The chained Nord returned a sneer as the elf spoke again. “But I did not hire you all to study Northern expressions. I expected him to have changed already.”

“Aye, so have I,” the tall Nord mumbled.

Vilkas squeezed his hands together anxiously, assessing the situation. The wolf could break the chains, but then what would his word mean to break it? Or perhaps his vow saved him, as the transformation left him extremely vulnerable as the wolf morphed him, changed him. “If it’s a fight you want then release me and let this be honorable! Or are you too craven to face a proper Nord?” He challenged in a low, dangerous voice. The challenge was mainly for the tall one, as he seemed the most Nord-blooded of the lot. He could use that, related to it, and perhaps spin a better outcome out of it. Vilkas was disarmed and stripped of his armor down to leather pants and a soaked cotton shirt. However, he was the best swordsman in Skyrim! Trained from the teachings passed down from Skyrim’s founding king! If only he could get into a proper fight…

For a moment, Marcella’s voice twinkled in his head, “What a brilliant, two-faced strategy from an _‘honorable’_ Nord…”

 _Shut up, woman!_ he chided the invasive thought. He wasn’t manipulative, it is any man’s right to an honorable fight.

“Bah! Enough of drama! I need to witness a transformation in person for my study to be published, and by Xarxes I’ll get one! We’ve waited long enough. Ingvarr, make him change,” the elf whined to the tall Nord and pointed to the chained man petulantly. The tall one, Ingvarr, wrapped his hand around his mouth in thought. Vilkas beamed his answer loudly with his glowing, defiant eyes. _I will not change._ After silence from Ingvarr and useless suggestions and urgings from the men, the elf spoke once again.

“Must I do everything myself? Orc, go get the girl. Maybe that will get him riled up.”

Vilkas’ eyes shot open wide, and panic froze any threat not to touch her in his throat.

“My name is Gormmok bro-Bro, and I don’t answer to you,” the Orc, one of the seven in the room, responded with disdain dripping in each word.

“Whatever,” the mage dismissed flippantly then pointed to another. “Marious, go fetch-“

“Absolutely not!” Ingvarr interrupted. “We will not harm or threaten an innocent woman for any end.” Vilkas sat shocked and confused.

“She’s my prisoner!” The elf argued but was crushed under Ignvarr’s gaze. The Nord stood at equal height to the High Elf, which Vilkas was sure the mage was not used to. Again, the yellow elf began to winge, “She came with a werewolf, but you put her in a holding cell against my orders. What makes you so sure she is not one of them?”

“That alchemist friend saw this one change before succumbing to his sleeping poison, that is how we knew right off. But the only other way of finding a werewolf-,” the Nord paused and knelt down to Vilkas, gripping his gaze with ice blue eyes. “-is by the eyes.

“You see, like a creature at the edge of a campfire, they glow when they catch the light. Man’s - and elves - do not,” he finished and returned to the elf. “We have yet to see her eyes since she is yet to wake. Still, I am sure of her innocence as these types don’t tend to initiate such scrawny ones.”

Vilkas bit his tongue in time to stop himself from speaking out. He agreed with him, as disgusting as it felt, but he would defend the honor of any under Kodlak’s blessing to outsiders. However, he did not want to distract the man from doing what Vilkas wanted. “Aye,” Vilkas finally spoke aloud, “she is a hopeful recently entertained by the fellowship, but in over her head. Let her go, she is no harm to you.”

Both elf and Nord remembered his personhood that moment. The yellow one pinched the bridge of his nose in frustrated thinking, while the tall Nord's lip turned upward, intrigued. He gave an order to the Orc to check on the girl and ‘Rodrick’, then turned back to Vilkas. “I’ve seen your sword, little wolf, I know you are one of Kodlak’s boys,” Ingvarr said pacing with heavy sways to the kneeling man, “And yet, you refuse the call of the blood and do not herald the deeds of another companion, hopeful or not. How very strange indeed. I’ve never known Kodlak to be so restrained nor tolerant of weaker folk.”

“You keep his name out of your filthy mouth,” Vilkas growled while the hairs on his wet back bristled along with his shivers. He vehemently rejected the idea this man could know such an honorable man - person - as Kodlak. Ingvarr stepped the closest he had to Vilkas and knelt once more, close enough for Vilkas to smell the hint of mead and meat on his breath.

“Ah, sad to see such potential be led astray, blind to who Kodlak _really_ is. Let me tell you, I knew Kodlak very well, once. Until he gave me this parting gift,” Ingvarr traced the nasty scars on his face gently with the back of a finger. Vilkas hissed at him to shut the hell up over and over as the tall Nord continued speaking over the noise. “I have learned the truth since that time, about the First Five Hundred, about the secrecy of the Harbingers and especially about Kodlak. See, I intend to restore the Companions without shaming the ancient tradition with your rot. So the vermin must be slaughtered in secret.” Vilkas’s eyes began to bleed yellow in his fury of shouts denying and damning the man, but he held on by a thread. In the background, the elf grinned with disgusting, sinister glee. Vilkas tried to thrash free, tired of biding time or thinking. He wanted to be out. He pulled on his chains and swung his body until he was suddenly and forcefully caught by the jaw by Ingvarr. Frozen, Vilkas stared deep into the older man’s righteous eyes and listened as he spoke, “Change, animal. Change and die and _rot in Oblivion_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is where that ‘cut content’ i mention in the added work description comes in. It seems originally the silver hand was actually the splintered group of old Companions who did not agree with the werewolf thing, hence why they are so interested in pieces of Wuuthrad. It also makes sense since the Companions quest line is so bare bones. So Vilkas is the protagonist of his own story, more on that in the interlude chapter between this arc and the next one (or whenever they get tf out of this)
> 
> Also Marcella finding out about them being werewolves is one of those things where the writing runs ahead of you and takes you in another direction, so let’s see how she handles it! (I know how but working with this new beat that is impossible to avoid took a while to smooth out)
> 
> [edit] so I removed that first bit of strange dreaming, I think it halts the pacing too much and the payoff is still a long ways away, especially if a single chapter turns into 4. The dreams will now only be prompted by moments of big big picture narrative.


	6. The Silver Fort Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stealth edit for all those typos I was too excited to fix before posting. If you find any others please point them out, I’m neigh illiterate and just can’t see them

Gormmok led Marcella with a torch through the cramped halls while Rodrick picked up the rear. It really felt more like a prison escort than any welcoming tour. Still, all she had to do was talk to this Ingvarr, and then she was free to run back to the furry arms of Garm.

But what about Vilkas? She paused at the thought. Before she was so caught up in her survival she hadn’t spared a thought to where he was, how he was. In light of new information, should she even care? She pondered that distressing confliction as the group ventured up a curved flight of stairs. Rodrick was talking incessantly but in a friendly tone. Seemed he was genuinely excited about her presence, almost like Ria when she first came to the Companions. Ria the werewolf? The thought finally brought up the question: if she were to leave, where would she return? To the werewolves? Was that a bad thing? How long was that even sustainable?

They finally came through a solid wood door to a larger gathering room. A few men and women lounged about on benches around a large roasting fire at the center, chatting. A few gave a courteous greeting to the entourage. Gormmok stopped in his step after absently scanning the room, almost making the Imperial girl run into him. He altered their course from the next hallway to further in the room. She saw why they made the change when they approached a very large man hunched over a map with three shards of… something metal placed neatly in a row at the top of the parchment. 

“Done with that wolf already?” Gormmok asked in greeting. The man looked up at the Orc, sighing exasperatedly but in a polite way. Rodrick nervously offered a good morning to the man, as if he didn’t speak with this Nird very often. Marcella could understand why he was so intimidated, the Nord dwarfed her and him both. The Orc, characteristic of the average of his kind, only came to the man’s throat.

“He is continuing to be stubborn against our guest’s wishes, so I left the mage to it,” the Nord passingly explained as he looked up from the map. She first noticed his gnarly scars across his face, then his delighted eyes. A raised arm and a warm smile welcome her over, past the Orc. He greeted her when she cautiously approached, “Our guest! So you found her untainted?”

“Her eyes don’t glow and she claims she is new to the Companions,” Gormmok said.

The giant Nord nodded. “Aye,” he stated, eyes off to the side thinking, “So said the wolf as well. Must be truth.”

“Vilkas is here?” Marcella blurted out the question before she could stop herself.

The Nord returned his attention to her at her outburst. He studied her for a second, and Marcella realized she might have just fucked up. “My apologies for speaking as if you were not here,” the man said again and she quietly let out the breath she was holding. “I am Ingvarr the Bear as some call me. I am the leader of his merry band,” he jested as he gestured to all the men present. A few of the relaxing men cheered back at his introduction. When it was quiet again he continued, “The wolf we found you with is safely locked away. He can no longer harm you. ”

Her confliction must have been plain on her face, as Ingvarr placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Feel not foolish. They have tricked many, and they hide their disgrace better than most werewolves we hunt. It is fortunate you have fallen into our care as soon as you did.”

“That’s what Gormmok thinks,” she stated curtly. The man took notice of her discomfort and returned to a more comfortable distance.

“Aye, we did not give the best first impression I admit. But it was a testament to the care we take here. I would like to extend the proper Northern Hospitality to you, if you will indulge me,” Ingvarr offered her a chair at his table. She hesitated, but that man’s deep, even tone, and the genuineness in his eyes eased her. It all reminded her of Kodlak, but Kodlak had lied to her. She sat as the Bear dismissed Gormmok to his duties, and ordered Rodrick to bring food and mead. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until he mentioned it.

“May I ask your name?” Ingvarr said as he folded his map into a pouch that secured the shards. She deliberated very hard between saying “Marcella” or any other name. “Have you forgotten it?” The man jested after a minute of her contemplating. Before she could become defensive he added, “Keep what you will, it is quite alright here. The Silver Hand thrives of discretion, and I can appreciate yours.” 

That visibly relaxed Marcella, as the stiffness in her body unwound. The Companions were a nosy bunch, using passive-aggressive statements of ‘a man’s business is his own’ bullshit to guilt her into uncovering her woes. All she wanted was to mind her own damn business! And be safe. But she wasn’t safe there anymore, was she.

“Your Orc, Gormmok, he claimed whatever I was looking for in the Companions I could find here. Was that an exaggeration?” She asked. Rodrick came back then with a plate of sizzling meat and charred root vegetables. Her mouth watered at the first scent and she dug in right away when set in front of her, sparing no thought for poison. Ingvarr looked pleased. 

“It is true. We are the true men of Ysgramor, the untainted Companions. Whatever Kodlak offers is a shell of the true men of the Companions.”

“If you’re the ‘real Companions’ then why are _you_ in a dingy fort-“ she corrected her insult, “- _unhomely_ place and _they_ are in Jorrvaskr?”

Ingvarr luckily paid no mind to her slip. “A fair question. The truth goes that an old Harbinger made a pact with Witches for more power to propel his noble deeds. He spread this power to the others and was pleased, that is until it was time to knock on Sovengard’s door,” he paused enough to notice her quizzical look. “Sovengard is the final feasting hall for Nords. Our ancestors and renowned heroes feast there until the end of eternity. It was true hubris to think such a man who needed more than his own strength to be valorous would be welcome at that door. May he rot in Hercine’s domain. His death would have been the end of it, but his men grew addicted to the power. And from one to the other, they passed the wolf down to their lessers... Those fools should have been run out before being allowed to do so, but all the leadership had followed their Harbinger, and the new blood was too cowardly to call them out.”

“And how do you know this?” She asked incredulously between bites.

He snorted a ‘ha!’ “Because they told me! You see, _I_ was once a Companion or a Companion under the reign of Kodlak. It was he himself who relayed the story; the Wolf of Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing. He offered me the blood, the _’gift’_ as he described it. I did what should have been done years ago, and challenged him on his disgrace, and how it disgraced the name of Ysgramor. He gave me these for the trouble,” he traced the scars upon his face, “I only made it out alive by my own skills. Had the Great War not broken out soon after, I am sure they would have hunted me down to ensure my silence.”

“And yet I had to have walked into the wolves’ den to hear about this? You seemed to have kept your silence well enough,” she pointed out.

“Aye. For that, you must forgive me, but it is a hard tale to swallow without proof. You have observed your own proof, that must be why you so quickly believed, aye?”

She nodded, thinking of her keen hound.

“Still, were I to bring proof and reveal the truth, the Companions would surely be tainted for eternity. None will trust us anymore, even if cleansed of the foul rot. The Five Hundred Companions were the first to come to this land, we are important to the Nordic heritage. We are trusted by the common folk to handle work that would otherwise fall on unreliable guard postage or untrustworthy sell-swords. To lose the faith of the people would mean the end of the fellowship and an end to important services. I will not risk that relationship by revealing their nature to the public.”

“So you hide as werewolf hunters instead?”

“Well, we _are_ werewolf hunters. Companion wolves or not, they need culling, and we also need coin. Skyrim’s connection with Hercine’s ilk is long and storied. But every man and woman here is a Companion as well, recruited under the philosophy of Ysgramor and guided by honor.”

Marcella had to admit, the man’s passion had swept her away and she had forgotten her food until the end of his speech. Ingvarr noticed and smiled pleasantly. She finished off the last bits as he watched her in thought.

“I must ask, however, even if you wish to refuse, but what brought you to the Companions?” 

That damn question again, but his previous passionate words endeared her some. “Strength, I supposed.” That was the short vague version, and not much more she gave to the werewolves. 

“The Companions is usually not a place to learn that but to prove it. You must possess strength greater than your arms for Kodlak to find you worthy. I have seen it before.”

She dropped her eyelids in distaste at once again being judged to be helpless. Despite their proclaimed straightforwardness, Nords were very adept with backhanded compliments. “And what about you? Do you find me worthy?” She challenged.

His lip pulled to one side, ready for the challenge. “I see your intelligence and caution. You dance around others with words. You turn your nose up to me, and yet still seek to be better than you are. That is a will no strong arm can match. Perhaps that is what Kodlak saw, and if he didn’t, he is a fool. Any guild would be far better with you in their ranks.”

She smiled gleefully. Finally, some actual fucking praise! And for what she truly cared about. The werewolves mostly all seemed stump-brained and focused on swords and boose and blood!

… _That was unkind_ , she thought, Ria and Athis’s face flashing before her. They praised her…

She sighed heavily. “I never really fit in, and the majority of them didn’t even want me there.” She mused aloud, more to the air than him.

“But we do, I can assure you. Our work lies more in the realm of your strengths… And we can also add to those strengths here,” Ingvarr offered, leaning in over the table.

She considered a moment, looking at her hands in her lap. Finally, she looked up and asked, “What will happen to V- Vilkas?” She stuttered his name not knowing if it were better to refer to him as the Nord did.

“He is with the mage now and his fate is up to him. Our guest wishes to study transformations and how to better spot werewolves before they change. Catching glowing eyes is a rare and dangerous thing.”

“So he’ll most likely die,” she finished what he wasn’t saying.

“Aye, as all animals do.”

Was she okay with that? Maybe? He was - _is_ an asshole. And a werewolf. How many people has he slaughtered? What would his brother think? Well, he was just a werewolf too.

“They have my dog,” she said, dipping her toe into acceptance.

“Is he the one that showed you proof? They don’t often allow dogs but Kodlak must be getting lazy in his old age. We shall retrieve it then. I take that as your acceptance then?”

She very slowly began to nod her head. The choice was made. He smiled warmly.

“Then welcome. What shall we call you then? Your name may be kept as your own, but we can not refer to you as ‘the woman’ going forward.” He smiled at his own joking tone. She smiled weakly but thankfully.

“Call me Mouse,” she stated. It was the insult Vilkas gave her to belittle her strength. Now she will prove him wrong and use the name. Ingvarr beamed, then called over Rodrick.

“I’m glad to have you aboard, Mouse. I wish to return your weapons to you. Our blacksmith has been admiring your sword - Skyfordge Steel - we will return it to you and outfit you with more suitable werewolf gear. Rodrick will take you.”

“Thank you,” she said with a small smile, but her stomach was gnawing at her despite the food. This- this was the right thing to do! ...Wasn’t it?

He bade her farewell and began opening the map once more as Rodrick led her through more halls. He was ecstatic to hear she accepted and began babbling about working together or whatever. She was too busy fidgeting with her fingers. He led her down into the lower levels of the fort, past one of the halls that led to the dungeon she first found herself in. 

They finally approached the room that reeked of soot and liquid metal, and it filled Marcella’s head with a warm-feeling memory. It reminded her of Eorlund, the first to proclaim her strength. The gnawing at her stomach increased.

“Hail, Baron!” Rodrick greeted the blacksmith. He was a Nord but of average stature, though his arms were nearly the size of a small child. He wore only an apron and pants, leaving the rest bear to sweat away the heat. The hot, closed room made her want to strip as well. He smiled at the two.

“Hail Rodrick. Who’s this?” He greeted back. It was fortunate Rodrick was so giddy to introduce her, as the words could barely move past her throat.

“This is Mouse, the one who the mage brought in with the Skyforge sword. Ingvarr just recruited her.”

The blacksmith looked disappointed. “I supposed that means I must return the blade then?” It was playful, and Rodrick bantered with the blacksmith more as he climbed around the forage to a reverently made spot with two swords: one a long sword, the other a great sword. Vilkas’s sword.

“Here you are, miss,” he gingerly offered her the blade with the tips of his fingers. It was well balanced enough to be handled so deftly. “You’re lucky to have gotten such a sword. I would have asked to train under Master Grey-Mane, were he not in service to those disgusting _mongrels._ ” He spat the last word.

She took the sword in her hands as the two men lamented over the lost potential to _‘those fucking dogs’_. She remembered how quickly Eorlund jumped to make this sword to accommodate her. How each member stepped in to help her. She felt disgusted with herself. _Was that all it really took, Marcella? A little fucking flattery and you throw these people away?_ She hounded herself. Her thoughts were cut short by faint, echoing screams from a man. 

“By Ysmir, how do you work with that noise?” Rodrick commented. Marcella’s fists slowly clenched over her blade with the prolonged sound.

“Peacefully! Music to my fucking ears. The damn bastard deserves worse, I say. Other werewolves have the decency to be ashamed of themselves and hide,” the Nord flew into a rant as the yells of pain carried on. “These assholes like to parade around being all high and mighty and honorable. Fritjof told me they rape the weak women of the towns they visit. We should toss that one’s head at the steps of Jorrvaskr as a warning. Then, we should just line them all up on the headsman's ax and parade their hairy faces across Skyrim. Hell, and before that, we should take _their_ women and see how they liked to be paid in kind-”

The Nord was stopped mid-sentence by the tip of the Skyforge sword piercing her heart. It had happened in an instant, and both men were shocked as Marcella pulled the sword out of the man. He spat blood from his mouth before he collapsed onto his anvil. “You’re a fucking liar,” she growled low. I’m that moment she unmade her decision. While their leader had a silver tongue, his men betrayed the truth. They were bloodthirsty psychos who tortured people. There were no torture chambers in Jorrvaskr. And Vilkas. She thought of his small corrective touches, of the pleased looks he gave when she progressed - those were his own way of giving praise.

By then Rodrick snapped out of his shock and drew his own short sword, screaming that she was a bitch and a cunt. He swung with fury and emotion, and Marcella could see it all coming. Her body reacted more than her mind as the training took over. Block, block, dodge, swing, counter. He pressed her back towards the forge and the dead man. Thinking fast, she grabbed the poking stick from the forge and flung burning ash into his eyes. He screamed and grabbed his face, but the sound only matched the ones calling out from Vilkas. Using the distraction, she shoved him causing him to trip over the uneven floor and crash hard to the ground. Adrenaline pounded through her veins as she crept to the hall, not bothering checking if Rodrick was alive or dead.

As she sped through the halls to the source of the screams, all she could repeat to herself was _‘I’m so fucking sorry Vilkas, I’m coming!’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marcella finding where her loyalties truely lie. I tried to make the Silver Hand more understandable but if you’ve noticed they way over exaggerate and project other werewolves onto the Companions. I hope her buying into it doesn’t make Marcella look too awful.
> 
> [edit]Small read through changes.


	7. The Silver Fort Part 3

“Change, animal. Change and die and _rot in oblivion_ ,” Ingvarr growled into Vilkas’ captive face. The younger Nord spat and left strings of saliva under the old man’s eye. In fury, Ingvarr released his face and took a fist full of black hair. He pulled painfully until Vilkas’ face was to the ceiling and his throat was completely exposed. It felt as if Ingvarr were trying to rip his scalp off. The old man drew Vilkas’ ear close to his mouth.

“Listen here,” Ingvarr spoke low and even but with an intensity that froze Vilkas. “There is no honor for ones such as you. Even dogs know loyalty and serve their masters well. You are beneath even them. You deserve no glorious death, no honorable considerations. I will not fight you. For what ‘proper Nord’ requires the poison of a Deadra to be powerful? To rely on any strength but their own? No, you are no Nord, for a Nord would have had the strength to reject the curse.”

The old man pushed Vilkas away, still gripping his hair. Vilkas should have been angry, should have been screaming and cursing, but it was as if the man’s words were a spell that froze him. He could not move, could not think, lest the implications burrow into his mind. Ingvarr huffed, sending some beard hairs whipping, and spoke to the elf. “These types are of a different breed. I urge we slit his throat and be done with this. We can find you easier subjects.”

“Absolutely not!” The elf mage walked closer to Vilkas defensively. “I have no guarantee or even an idea of how long it will take to get a new subject! I have the bird in my hand now, and I shall use it. If you’re out of ideas, be gone and let me work.”

Ingvarr shoved Vilkas’ head down then released his grip on his hair to stand. “So be it. I am done with this. Marious, Drahff, Glen, you’re to relieve the outer guard. Enthir, Fritjof, stay with our guest.” Three of the total seven men trickled out. When Ingvarr bade his tiered goodbye, the only remaining were the elf mage, a stocky wood elf, and a tight-faced Nord with Vilkas.

The mage paced back and forth with a musing smirk. He stared at the Nord kneeling before him while he barked an order. “Bosmer, bring one of those glass vials from the table. I need to take a sample of this in-between state.”

The Wood Elf obliged reluctantly. The mage pulled a small blade from the pouch on his belt. Vilkas didn’t know what to expect as the yellow elf approached, and thrashed at his attempts to grasp one of his raised arms. Ordering the two remaining men to hold the Nord down, the elf grasped a restrained arm and worked the tip of the knife into Vilkas’ skin. He hissed with the pain of every twist. The movements were precise as the mage bleed him and pressed an open vial to the stream. Once he had what we wanted, the two men backed off and he worked at the table, leaving Vilkas to keep bleeding. The Nord wasn’t too worried, as the wolf healed him faster than he did on his own. But now was the best time to find some sort of escape. There were only two options, find a weakness in the wall he was anchored to, or break his thumbs to slip free. The first option seemed more appealing. From his place on the ground, he inspected the iron on the wall. No good. It was sturdy and had taken his weight before when he lunged. The chain was solid and black. Even if he could use a trick to snap it, nothing was in reach at all. Fuck, he was going to have to break a thumb. He decided on his non-sword hand, grasped his thumb while both hands were still high in the air, and began to pull. His body’s reluctance to hurt itself prevented the force necessary at the first attempt. He quietly hyped himself up, held his breath, and pulled again.

The mage returned in the middle of the attempt and tsked at him. “That’s not going to work, dumb thing. It’s the wrong joint. You’d have to crush your wrist. But there’s no need for that when you can just _transform_.”

“Fuck you,” is all he said as he continued again with his thumb. He didn’t understand anatomy enough to know if the mage was right or wrong, but Vilkas knew better than to trust a captor. He figured he may wrench the damn thumb and have him by the throat in a second. The elf’s face dropped. Suddenly, the Nord’s body was blasted with energy, and every muscle contracted with pain. He cried out inadvertently, surprised.

“ _Oh my bad_ , you’re still wet,” the mage said with his hands still extended from his cast. When Vilkas did not change, he shocked him again, this time longer. He tried to contain himself, but as the electricity jumped around and back into his body, bouncing through the iron and searing his wrists, he screamed. The wolf screamed too. He felt the force of the beast blood demanding to defend itself. His mind and the wolf screamed _is it worth it to die!?_ The answer was habit. He mindlessly fought the wolf yet screamed as it took his eyes, took his nails to be claws, and put fur on his skin. The mage smiled small and wickedly against the light of his continuous storm.

Just as it started, the lightning suddenly stopped. Vilkas fell limp. 

“Unhand me! Or would you prefer a shock as well?” The high elf said.

It was the Wood Elf to intervene, strangely enough. “Enough of this! This is cruel even to rats!” The wood elf answered back. He had caught the mage’s wrist.

“Oh get off it, Enthir. These fucking mongrels deserve it,” the Nord guard said. 

The two began arguing interspersed with the mage chewing out the Wood Elf. The elf kept asserting to both there is a line that has been crossed. Amongst the chatter, Vilkas reverted as he gained control of his body once more. Then he noticed a sweet scent. He looked up weakly and caught faint eyes past a cracked door. Only the yellow wolf eyes could catch it. Marcella. He heard her heart last, beating like a drum. He wanted to stare as if his gaze would prevent anything bad from happening in whatever plan she had. Be he drew his eyes down again lest the others notice his gaze and accidentally reveal her. From his peripheral vision, he saw her slowly open the door wider. Sword drawn, she crept on bent knees out of the shadowed door to the distracted cluster of men. He caught an overwhelming scent of fear from her. But when he accidentally glanced at her eyes to check on her, they burned like the blue of a flame with malintent. 

She wasn’t fast enough, as the men came to some sort of dismissal of their issue. The Wood Elf groaned in anger and frustration when he turned away from Vilkas and the verbal fight. “What the fuck?-“ was all the elf said before Marcella swiped up along his body. He crumpled to the floor in a ribbon of red. Both the mage and the Nord were alerted at the moment and turned away from Vilkas, drawing weapons. The guard hollered at the Imperial, while the mage stepped backward to the darkened corners. _Brave idiot woman,_ danced in his mind along with ideas to assist her. Marcella charged the Nord - _Yes, good! She remembered crowding an opponent gave them less room to get a strong swing_ \- and they locked swords. The Nord was winning very quickly, almost about to shove the woman back and off-balance. It would open her up to a deathblow. Vilkas gave up on thinking and simply acted with his gut. He charged to the end of his chain and kicked out the knee of the Nord. The previous force of their clash sent the Nord hard backward into the range of Vilkas. The chained Nord wrapped his bound arms around the other’s neck. Pure adrenaline fueled his choking grip and he squeezed the life out of the flailing man. Before Marcella could draw to end him, lightning flashed and seized the woman’s body in painful contortions. She screamed sharply. The sound filled Vilkas with enough absolute rage that he crushed the Nord’s windpipe with the crook of his arm. The man slipped out and died on the ground next to him.

But Vilkas could do nothing else, though, chained as he was. Luckily, Marcella kept on her feet. She yelled a string of curses as she began to rush the mage. Idiot already backed himself up to the walls. But while the woman still had some distance, the mage raised his hands to cast again. All Vilkas could do was shout _Marcella_ to warn her of what her eyes already saw. In response, the damn woman chucked her sword haphazardly at the mage while advancing. It forced the mage to move and protect himself from the heavy, sharp object flying at him instead of casting. She took the opportunity to draw her dagger and swipe angrily at the mage. His shin was the only thing nicked as he landed a lucky kick into her stomach. She crashed into the ground with a pained gasp. Vilkas couldn’t help but call out to her. Then the bastard let out a storm on her, just as he did to Vilkas. She cried in pain and turned onto her front. Vilkas thrashed and yelled against the chains and his waning strength to do something - anything - to help her. Despite the onslaught of storm raining onto her body, she rose to her hands and knees. She lunged up. The storm stopped with a sickening squelch. The yellow elf looked terrified as the woman held firm onto the danger rammed into his gut. With his wolf ears, he heard Marcella growl, “Doesn’t work on me. I’m an atronach, you son of a bitch.”

The room was silent then. The mage fell in a heap to his side, dead, and Marcella fell to her knees. She was turned away but could see her shoulders heave with shocked breaths.

“Marcella,” Vilkas said, softer than was unusual for him - no doubt due to the flooding exhaustion. She turned her head to him, tears in her eyes and eyebrows knitted tightly together. “It’s okay,” he reassured her. She nodded back, then composed herself somewhat with a sniffle. It was then Vilkas let out his breath he didn’t realize he was holding. _She did it,_ he smiled to himself as his eyes grew heavier. Marcella found the keys stashed on the deceased high elf, collected her thrown sword, and came to free the Nord. While she tested which of the several iron keys could release him, a coughing fit from the Wood Elf alerted Marcella. He was still alive. She looked stressed and a little flustered as she tried keys and kept an eye on the living elf. He pushed himself to a seated position while grasping his chest. Finally, Vilkas’ arms fell limply to his side, free. He let them rest as Marcella approached the elf on the floor.

“Goddammit,” the elf shakily swore and looked up to the woman. “Wish it could have been more of a straight fight. But…,” he shrugged with a weak ironic chuckle. Marcella only raised the tip of her sword to him but hesitated there. 

“I will not beg. A Companion never begs,” the Wood Elf stated breathily. He closed his eyes in acceptance and waited for Marcella’s blow nobly. Only a moment more past, then she rounded the sword and landed the butt of it on the elf’s head. She spared him, as his heart still beat while he splayed out of the stone floor. Strange, as Vilkas would not have even hesitated at the start. Nevertheless, the woman sheathed her sword and returned to him. 

When Vilkas tried to stand on his own, his legs betrayed him. It felt like the weight of his own body was too much to bear, and he stumbled back to his knees. Marcella did her best to pull him up by the arm, but it took an odd rolling of half his weight onto her back to get him to stand. Now they could begin to escape. He hoped she had a plan.

He simply focused on just moving far more than trying to think of solutions to survive this. Marcella was smart, that was simply a fact. He could do nothing other than trust her now.

Quietly, he heard the woman mumble anxious reassurances as they awkwardly hobbled down the halls. The angle which she held him up slowed them down considerably. Divines, if they were caught, both of them would be killed immediately. Still, the woman persisted as if she knew where she was going. He very weakly mumbled a question to see if she really did.

“Sort of,” she huffed under the strain of half his body weight, “It’s a fort meant to withstand sieging. That means there must be some back supply line, or at least there should. It’s a better bet than fighting our way out the front door.”

“Where did you get that idea?” He said.

“...books? I’m open to suggestions,” she said with an annoyed ting. There were no others, though. His mind was too tired, all he wanted to do was rest…

“Woah!” She tried to stay quiet and caught Vilkas in his stumble. “Uuuuhhh, hey there stay with me it’s okay,” she babbled, her anxious heart beating faster every minute. He blinked awake and picked some of his weight back up. She hurried them down, past the smell of blood and a forge. A weak heart beat faintly in the room, someone was in there. The Nord did his best to pick himself up more and rush hurriedly into what looked like more dungeon. The effort exhausted Vilkas, and he collapsed into Marcella. She was lucky to roll him off her shoulder before the full force of the man could crush her. 

When she tried to tend him and anxiously urge him up, he weakly raised his hand to shoo her. “Just… let me rest… a second,” he mumbled while his eyes fluttered shut. He heard a breathy curse, then slim arms hooked under his shoulders and began to drag him headward. The little mouse surprised him, and that was his last thought before slipping into a restless sleep. Or death. But that notion was put to rest when the girl slapped him open-palmed on the cheek. The shock just got him to crack an eye and grumble.

“Time’s up. I let you rest while I looked. Think I found something but we got to go _now_ ,” she explained while attempting to hoist him by his arm. The assistance he gave was only half-hearted, as the floor called to him still until he heard the scuffling and anxious chatter from far down the halls. That put some life into his body. They rolled him up together, and she led him to the far back where her sword was wedged between panels of stone, fixative, and - wood? It was then she noticed the voices as well. Panicked, she pressed her weight on the hilt of her sword to pry open the panel. A small part of Vilkas grew upset at how she was treating her sword, but the majority had more sense. He helped push - well more laid his tiered weight onto it - and slowly the fixative cracked loose. The final push snapped open the door blocking the passage and shattered the Skyforge steel. Shor knows if they were heard or not by the frantic men. Still, he kept focus. Vilkas stumbled into the rocky passage first using the walls to steady himself. Marcella took the rear and did her best to reset the heavy blockage back. Not only did it hide their tracks, but it blocked all but slivers of light through. When they made their way some down the hall, the Nord heard the woman stumble over something.

“Fuck, I can’t see!” She said breathily. Luckily, he could. Or the wolf could. He could hear the men now from the dungeon they left. They were shouting to find them. It was his turn to actually be useful. Wordlessly, he scooped the woman’s waist to him and led them down the cave as quickly as he was able to move the uneven path. By Talos, let those men miss the door.

Their voices stayed distant by the time the two reached a ladder where the end of the digging stopped. Vilkas was frustrated now by his exhaustion and having to rest while the small woman climbed and fought the hatch open. He about gathered what strength he had left to climb up and help until she pulled out the sad stump of her sword and sawed the overgrowth through what tiny crack she could prop on a shoulder. Oddly, he was impressed. Perhaps he was just so exhausted he missed this was an obvious solution he too would come up with. Still, they were free into the brisk night air. She pulled him out the last of the hole, and just picked a direction. 

“You need to run with me,” she urged him and grabbed his hand. He had hardly anything left in him. It was then the wolf bristled and filled him with the urge to run, like an animal in the forest. The beast offered the last amount of strength possible and the two took off as fast as they could. They whipped past bushes and trees and jutting rocks. Anything to put distance between them and that hole in the ground. 

It felt like an eternity when Vilkas’ heavy legs failed to raise high enough over a rock, and he dived into the dirt. That was it. It was the end of his strength. Marcella rounded back on him and breathily babbled encouragement to get up. He shook his head. He was done. She once again hooked her arms under him and hauled his body with jerking motions under the larger bushes and young saplings. It seemed like that was her endpoint too, as she just sat there with him propped on her heaving chest and raspy breath. When he tried to open his mouth to ask if she was okay, his eyes rolled backward and his body dived into an exhausted sleep.

-

Warm drops of sun streaked across Vilkas’ face. He could feel it before his eyes ever allowed themselves to be open. The wind tousled crispy-sounding leaves gently above. His wrists hurt and his mind felt like a bog. He felt only marginally better, but the cold and the weakness in his muscles kept him down on the ground. A familiar voice sigh defeatedly then. Marcella. She was alive. Prying open his eyes, he did his best to sit up and lean against a nearby rock. The soft early morning sun did little to cut through the night’s chill. But it seemed the two ended up in a tree grove at the foot of frosted mountains. It was a miracle they hadn’t been found yet. He looked to his companion then. She looked terrible while she fiddled with the pathetic remains of her sword. He guessed she hadn’t slept a wink. But she did it. She lived against her first real fight. He was proud of her actually using what she was taught. Mostly. She didn’t actually win any sword fight and even used dishonorable tactics to surprise her enemy. Although, were it not for him she would have died to the Nord. But, despite it all, she got them out alive. He smiled a little. That _was_ something.

She was whittling on a stick while sitting on a boulder with what was left of her sword. The knitted stressed look on her face as she focused on the stick prompted concern out of him.

“You feeling alright?” He asked gently from exhaustion. She looked up at him then, eyes serious and wary. 

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, distant and impersonal. Huh, he had never seen her like that before. She was usually spitefully determined, or quietly forlorn. But this, she was so twisted up. It saddened him. He wanted to take that sadness from her, as a thank you for saving him. But he didn’t know how, and knew it would be rejected. Rightfully so. So instead he did the only thing his tiered brain could think of and began practical planning.

“Shall we head home before those men find our tracks?” He asked.

She stopped whittling and curled into herself. It was a very odd reaction.

He tried getting up then, but faltered. The mage’s storm still had a toll on him, but he was determined to get closer to Marcella. “What’s wrong?” He pressed. Teasing her to anger was one thing, and only enjoyable because of how well she did it back, but this. He hated seeing her like this.

He was able to stand closer to where she sat. But, she turned her head away and used her hair to hide her face as she shook it. He could only freeze, unsure what to do. “Why?” She breathed, the sound of tears edging her voice. Now he was thoroughly confused. Perhaps the events of yesterday were making an emotional swell now. It was common for new fighters to come to terms with the fear of actual combat. Most begin to handle that fear as they grow more skilled, but more still are broken by it. For now, he struggled with what to do. He wanted to touch her face, to comfort her. Even on her best days she always looked fragile, but now she looked shattered. This was exactly what he didn’t want at the beginning. As her silence persisted, he bent to her level and rested a hand on her shoulder, deciding that was the best middle ground between scooping her up or doing nothing. “It’s alright,” he reassured her.

She whipped her face to him, indignant but also… scared. Her lovely, tearful blue eyes jumped back and forth between his, searching. “They really do glow, don’t they?”

Fuck, oh fuck. He retreated up and back a step. “You… know?”

“They told me. I wouldn’t have believed it, but Garm never acted the way he does around you all. All of you. Fucking werewolves?” She swallowed hard.

He thought of denying it, of challenging her why she would believe those bandits over him - the family she wanted to join. But what good is groveling in a lie revealed? Ingvarr’s voice danced in his head; it is a shameful thing to lie. He squeezed his eyes to dispel the man, then returned to Marcella’s gaze. “Aye, we are. But only those in the Circle. Ria, Athis, Torvar, Njada, the Grey-Manes, they are like you. Only Farkas, Alea, Skjor, Kodlak, and I have the blood.” It felt almost painful to reveal the truth.

“Is that why they don’t like me? I’m just prey?” She accused harshly. He didn’t really know how to approach that. By Talos, what was he going to do? Would she keep the secret? Fuck, and he hadn’t endeared himself to her at all by being a fucking asshole. Will she talk? What will Kodlak say-?

Then a thought struck him.

“You knew, but you came for me.”

She rolled her eyes, more at herself it seemed. “That tall Nord, he fed me all this bullshit about the Companions being so integral to Skyrim. About how noble and heroic they are, but were tainted by weak men and… the way he said it felt right. But they were hurting you.” Her eyes lifted to his on the last word. He was taken aback. “But you’re a werewolf. Werewolves are horrible creatures that slaughter and hurt people.”

“It’s not the same here-”

“Is it?” Her body was oppositional, but her eyes pleaded. That moment, he decided to take a chance. He took her hand with the broken sword in both of his and lifted the jagged point to hover over his heart. Now it was her turn to be stunned.

“We are the Companions: protectors and trailblazers. We followed only one to create this country, and every day we follow how he would rule. We use our powers only against those that threaten those weaker than them. Kodlak, Farkas, and I have vowed to master the blood and not give in to the blood. But should that ever change, if you ever fear me to be like those lost to Hircine, I’ll give you this lesson. The heart is here, and you need only a blade this long to pierce it.” He finished but still grasped her hand. She was speechless. Really, he hoped it made her feel more comfortable to have power over him. To make up for the times he used his power over her. It was silent except for the rushing leaves and distant, twittering birds. Finally, she exhaled long like she was holding her breath underwater. He gently released her hand and it lightly slipped out of his massive palms back to her side.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [edit] So big changes, big changes. I really needed to tone down Villas’s happiness that she succeeded. I think I was too far of a shift and she really didn’t do anything too impressive in his eyes except not die. Also it’s a payoff I don’t want to blow the load on too early, which is way to early at this point. This is, after all, a s l o w b u r n. Like he is in love with her but not the her Marcella wants to be anymore. Also he’s a dick to her and like he’s gotta stop before she even considers more than a fuk. (I liked the term belligerent sexual tension )
> 
> Finally this arc is done! And by god did it evolve beyond what I expected. This set up a lot of what is going to go on with him. I love how many things I can reveal about both of them in this chapter. And the strange intimacy at the end is so wonderful. It’s about to get so much better AND so much worse. Stay tuned.
> 
> Also, if it wasn’t clear, Marcella saying she is an atronach means she was born under the sign and thus has great spell absorption but cant cast for shit. 
> 
> There is going to be a short chapter next then we are launching to the Dragonborne arc! That’s the one with Farkas and Ria and maaaaaybe Marcella discovers a side of Vilkas she begins to like ;) But how will Vilkas handle his experience with Ingvarr and the new past of Kodlak revealed? FIND OUT in 3 weeks!


	8. Back Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !BEFORE YOU READ! I highly recommend going back and rereading at least the last chapter. I’ve rewritten all the chapters into a second draft, but specifically I changed the mood of the last chapter’ ending. The payoff of Vilkas being pleased with Marcella’s abilities doesn’t really fit properly. So the the new tone carries over here. But also I know it’s been a while, and it would be good to get familiar again. But either way, enjoy!

The pair hadn’t gotten far before Vilkas’s legs gave out. The cold swept in fast as the Imperial did her best to lift the Nord. It was only manageable by slinging his arm and chest across her bent back. The exposed hairy skin burned against the cracks in her leather armor. A dark spot on the arm slung around her caught attention. A wound at the beginning of turning sour. Fuck. Internally she kicked herself for not checking him over sooner, even though there was zero light and a fire would have given away their hiding spot. She hypothesized his heat was a fever, and that this walk was going to be brutal. Honestly, it was terrifying for Marcella to watch such a strong man struggle. If those men could do that to a pillar like Villas, and a werewolf to boot, what would they do to her if they caught her? 

“Com’on big guy. Which way?” Marcella egged on the half limp Nord. He had taken the lead for the first hour of leaving their refuge, but now it was her time to lead.

Vilkas lifted a weak hand to a mountain, _the_ mountain that dominated over every other and kissed the heavens. “To the Throat. By the sunrise we are west of it like Whiterun is. It’ll take us home.”

Clouds rolled over them in the hours they hobbled in a mostly straight line towards the Throat. They were heavy and brought a chill which threatened to drop rain on the two. Trees trickled away to short brush as they entered the flatlands of Whiterun Hold. Finally, _finally_ they stumbled upon a road. Marcella finally collapsed on the ground for a simple break, not caring how the ground zapped her heat. The relief of not moving was far better. They sat in relief and the cold until the unmistakable sound of wooden wheels on cobblestone rumbled quickly from down the road. With a deep sign, the woman rose to her feet and positioned herself above Vilkas to heave his ass behind some brush or stone or anything. The massive man rose only to a sitting position but moved no more. He looked miserable.

“We won’t make it home before the rain hits at this pace,” Vilkas said while looking down the road at the approaching wagon. Marcella looked to the dark sky, back at the man openly sniffing the air, then down the road.

“That’s a stupid idea, Vilkas,” she snapped when she realized he actually wanted to ask the cart for a ride. “Fuck knows who that is, Silver Hand, Bandits, Thalmor. And if not that, then they would be smart enough to assume we were putting on an act.”

He rocked his head toward her, as if it were beginning to get too heavy. She still didn’t relent. Sighing, he turned his head to the sky and started sniffing the air. “It’s one man, human by the smell.”

“Really dropping the pretense now, are ya?”

“Do you want to get home or want to pick a fight?” He was drained. She was drained, but everything inside her refused to ask for help. She could carry them home without opening them up to a betrayal. There was still time to hide and let the cart pass, as the road angled against a rock face which obscured them. But the stubborn fuck decided to use his strength to resist her tugs instead of just moving! The wooden rumbling grew louder and louder with Marcella’s instinct to flee. Devine’s damn him, sdidn’t muster all her strength and kill two people to just leave this idiot to the fate of a stranger's kindness. She pulled on his arms and pushed against his frame which only pushed him down on his elbow. It wasn’t until Vilkas shouted out to the man that she stopped. 

The young lad on the cart almost jumped out of his seat. He looked just about ready to bolt at the sight of them crouched in the shrub. Marcella had seen this sort of set up so many times herself that eventually she didn’t even slow her pace on the road. It felt like a karmic joke that now she was on the other end of the setup. Except it was true this time, she supposed. But to her surprise, Vilkas surprisingly talked the man into stopping and hearing their plight. At this point she let him take the lead. He told the cart man about being attacked on the road with his friend and his wound - the dark spot on his arm he was now clutching - would turn soon. They needed passage to Whiterun and would pay him when they arrived.

The lad considered it quietly for a long moment. Then said, “My dad’s gunna kill me but... hop in the back. I can take you ask far as the farms, but I can’t be late meeting my uncle.”

“That’s-,” Vilkas grunted as he got to his feet, “fine. I’ll send it to your name.” He rejected Marcella’s help as he slowly walked to the cart. From the front the lad named himself Ennis of Roriksted.

Marcella flared angrily at the broad man as he passed but kept it inside. Motherfucker doesn’t want to be seen being carried by her? Too proud to show others weakness? She popped up onto the back of the cart with her legs dangling off the edge and her arms crossed. Vilkas managed to get up as well, but immediately laid down and threw his good arm over his eyes. Not long after, the young lad whipped his reins and the three were off.

Ennis tried to make some conversation at the start, but Marcella refused to give any meaningful responses. She may have planted roots for now, but she still remembered the hard lessons she learned on the road. Too much information to strangers always lead to trouble. The only thing the boy got out of Vilkas was their names - much to the internal distress of Marcella. 

So an hour dragged on in sweet silence. Enough for her to really process everything that happened. She didn’t sleep the night before as she kept guard. Her body ached now that it was still. Divines, she hated to admit it but Vilkas made the right call here. She glanced at him to find he moved his arm off one eye to look back at her. 

His little stunt with the shattered sword that morning really shook her. Well all of it did, but the vulnerability he showed made her almost… uncomfortable. Really his whole state was terrifying. _He_ was meant to be the strong one. Sure he got in her way and she wanted to rely on her own strength and all. But. But she never realized how much she counted on the fall back option. She supposed this was just yet another slap to the face reminder of how fragile life is.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked, noticing her staring.

What a dumb question. Still feeling slighted from him refusing her instructions and help before the cart, she huffed a non-answer back. “Ah. Just how I’m going to explain your condition to your woman when we get back.”

“Talos smite me,” he sighed while reburying his eye into his arm, “not now, Marcella. I haven’t the energy.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she retorted, knowing exactly what she was doing. She just felt like venting all the negative emotion buzzing inside her exhausted frame.

“Are you upset about something? Or are you just exhausted?” He asked and even managed to not sound sarcastic. It was a straight up question.

Yeah she was! About… him carrying his own weight three feet after she had carried him several miles giving her a break. Damn maybe she was just cranky. The wind let out of her sails and she just deflated. “No I just- wanted to keep everyone in the loop.”

He began to hum some sort of “she’s not my-“ until the sound caught in his throat and he began coughing. Ennis decided then to stop pretending like he wasn’t listening and asked if he was ok. She responded that they had to get home soon. When she rested a hand on the man’s forehead he was burning. Whatever cut him must have had nasty shit on it. Gently, she reassured him it was going to be alright. And because the Divines hated her, she felt the first few drops of rain.

Ennis asked if they should find shelter before the bulk hit. There wasn’t time. But by standing on the cart, Marcella could see the tip of Dragon’s Reach. She told him to press on.

—-

Garm was yet again scratching and whining at the door to outside. Athis got the dog to finally come inside after the sun disappeared to rain. But the fluffy white thing would not stop anxiously waiting for his master.

“Still no Marcella and Vilkas?” Ria asked as she sat down for dinner, looking pitifully at the dog. Farkas shrugged as he began serving himself some of the glossy based-roasted chicken. Aela and Skjor stood off to the side discussing something amongst themselves. Njada seemed annoyed that the topic came up again by the way she bit into her crusty bread. “This is the third day,” Ria commented more to the air than to anyone else.

“I’m sure they are fine,” Athis reassured Ria with a hand on her shoulder as he took a seat beside her. “They are both talented swordsmen-“ 

Njada snorted scornfully at equating Vilkas and Marcella’s skills. Athis told her to stuff it.

Torvarr piped up with his opinion as he walked in from downstairs. “Ah, those two needed their time alone for months now. Maybe they’re just working out some of that tension.” He pumped his arms to mime thrusting. That immediately offended Ria who then threw her piece of bread at him. He tried to slap it out of the air but it nailed him in the face anyway.

“Are Companions even _allowed_ to fuck around with each other?” Njada spat. The question stirred up the room a bit. Ria and Njada made similar comments assuming it was not allowed. Athis dismissed it as a dumb question. When the three looked at Farkas, he shrugged as he cleaned a chicken wing in one stroke. Torvarr reminded all ladies present that he was always available to work out post-combat sores which prompted both Njada and Ria to pelt him with bread from the table.

Strangely enough, the topic pulled in Aela and Skjor’s attention. “The answer,” the respected Nord bellowed over the rabble which immediately pulled everyone’s attention, “is it is entirely discouraged. I will have none of you creating discourse in our guild with feckless relationships.” Aela stood to the side with her arms crossed in support of her fellow Circle member. They all listened to him as he spoke. “If Vilkas has decided he can just start sleeping with whelps, we will be having a long _discussion_.” The hall was quiet for a moment as the implication of Skjor beating the shit out of Vilkas hung in the air.

Then Torvarr rounded to the front of the table and smoldering cooking pit as if to make an audience of everyone. “Well hey!” he jeered, “That’s not a hard ‘no’! We say no one’s the boss of ‘nother, so it doesn’t matter what Skjor says, we can love whoever we want!” The silence was deafening.

“You just want to fuck the whelp, don’t you?” Njada said flatly.

Torvarr stumbled over a denial but was mercifully cut off with a loud BANG and frantic barking. The front doors swung violently open on their hinges and slammed into the wall. In the doorway, silhouetted by the angry rain and chilling wind, Vilkas draped limply across Marcella and a Whiterun guard’s shoulders. The stunned silence lasted only a beat before several people burst into action. Farkas immediately dropped his food and ran to his brother, knocking the table and everyone else’s food in the process. He replaced the guard under Vilkas and Skjor took Marcella’s place and together they began dragging the limp Nord to the dorms. At the same time, Ria ran to Marcella’s aid and guided the exhausted woman to a bench while Garm followed at her ankles. From behind, Athis volunteered to fetch the healer, but the guard said one of his men already went to alert them. The Dark Elf left to intercept one anyway. The others simply gathered around Marcella and began hounding her.

—-

“What happened?”

“Where did you go?”

“What happened to Vilkas?”

Marcella was overwhelmed on every side. She was shivering in her dirty, wet armor and tried to stammer out something, anything to shut them up. Only a weak little “I- I- We-“ came out as she tried to sparse the story of elements that would raise too many questions. But all she felt were hot tears rising in her eyes. Athis burst through the doors with the healer at that moment, creating enough of a distraction for the woman to wriggle out of the crowd around her. They followed anyway with their interrogation. Diving for refuge, Marcella ran into the spare room at the end of the hall where Vignar occasionally slept. Only the white dog was able to slip in before she slammed the door and locked it.

Some of the people called through the door, others - or just Aela by the sound of her shouts - pounded mercilessly to open up and give answers. The woman only backed away until she pressed up against the wall. From there the dam broke. She slid slowly to the floor crying. Tears fell and every hard sob she felt, she held her breath. The pain was the same, but not a soul could hear it; a technique she learned from long, hard years. There on the floor, she cried from the stress, from the exhaustion, from the shame of what she did in the fort, and all because it was finally safe to do so. Garm did his best to nuzzle and lick the woman’s face. It helped a little. As she wept, she sluggishly pulled off her soaked armor and clothes and rolled into the dry sheets of the spare bed. Her and the dog rested there until the sound of the Companions at the door stopped. 

Kodlak. His voice was smooth from the other side of the door telling them to leave. The sound stopped her crying, but only because anxiety seized her. She could hide from the others, but not from the Harbinger. The werewolf harbinger. A soft knock rapped on the door. “Marcella? Will you open up?” The old man asked gently through the wood.

It took a moment for her to compose her voice enough to sound normal. “...I’m not decent.” She could hear him speak softly and someone start running. 

“We’re getting you some dry clothes. It’s just me, lass.” The warmth in his voice relaxed her, despite herself. Not long after, Kodlak knocked again and said the clothes were here. Marcella sighed and got up from stroking Garm to unlock the door. They passed through a small crack for privacy, a simple shirt and leather pants from her trunk. She dressed slowly, to buy time. But there wasn’t a point, it was time to face the music. After one more second of resting her hand on the knob to compose her face, she opened the door. Thankfully it was only Kodlak, although Ria hovered on the complete opposite side of the hall by the stairs.

Wordlessly he stepped in and shut the door. She barely got an “I-“ before he proceeded to crush her into his chest. It surprised her, but what surprised her more was how good it felt. It had been so long since having just a simple embrace. She didn’t deserve such affection. Not after betraying him. She sighed deeply once again. Garm nudged her ankle to let her know he was there. After a moment, Kodlak gave two hearty pats to her back before separating. He grabbed the spare stool Tilma used and motioned for her to sit opposite him on the bed. When she sat, Garm immediately pushed his way onto her lap, now uncaring of his dislike for the other Companions.

“So tell me, lass. What happened?”

She took a breath, gripped into Garm’s fur, and began at the job in the basement. She told him of the alchemist, about waking up in a cell, and about how they were hurting Vilkas. Conveniently, Marcella skipped the part about temporarily betraying them all. It didn’t matter in the end, after all she saved Vilaks. Ignoring that, she rounded out the tale by quickly summing up the events of escaping and everything after. When the tale concluded, Kodlak quietly sat with his fingers on his chin, thinking. The words escaped her before she could stop them, “You know who they are, don’t you?”

Kodlak raised his steely eyes to her. A wall had just been erected behind them. “Ria, be gone from the door,” he commanded without taking his eyes from hers. Marcella swilled a fair amount of fear. The sound of scrambling proved Ria was indeed behind the door. How did he-? Ah, of course. He’s a werewolf. Kodlak turned his attention back to Marcella on the bed. “I knew I couldn’t keep her away but this…I need to know, did you speak with them?”

“They told me your secret.” She spoke as soft as one would put a foot on ice waiting for a crack.

“And what secret is that?” Kodlak asked incredulously. Fair, Marcella thought, it’s a big leap to werewolves. He wouldn’t want to accidentally give away their life-ruining secret if she meant something else.

“Y-you’re a werewolf.” 

He considered a moment, then asked, “And what do you think of that?”

Odd. Was he asking her if she thought it were true? Or was that an admission and genuinely asking about her opinion? “Are you trying to say that it’s not true?”

He sighed, stroked one of the brains in his beard, and responded. “No,” he said and relaxed back into the usual Kodlak she knew. “Aye it is true. It is unfortunate you had to learn this in such a distressing manner. But there is nothing to fear, we are in far more control than those afflicted you would meet out in the world. But I am guessing you have questions.”

Oh she sure did. She thought of Ingvarr’s tale about the Harbinger that could not rely on his own strength and made a pact with witches. But that was _his_ version of the story. She needed Kodlak’s. “Why?” When he seemed confused, she clarified, “Why- er how did the Companions become werewolves?”

He nodded. “Aye. It began with Kyrnil Long-Nose, a Harbinger of great renown. Two hundred years ago, around the time of the death of the last Septim, the Companions began to fill up with lesser worthy men. Children of jarls or of rich merchants looking to find easy fame. This was further exacerbated when the Oblivion Crisis felled all the brave men from the ranks. From there, those lessers began filling out favors in a political manor, which created many enemies to Jorrvaskr. This of course was enabled by a weak Harbinger for decades. That was until Kyrnil. 

“He gathered the true-hearted Companions in the woods and stormed Whiterun and Jorrvaskr with just himself and ten good men. The Jarl at the time had ties to the rot in the hall and declared them bandits. Kyrnil still managed to route the weak Harbinger and expelled the unworthy. From there, he reestablished the Companions along the lines for the First Five Hundred which has endured to this day.”

Hmph. It was a nice story, but when he took a breath to signal his end, Marcella was a little upset. It was completely irrelevant. Her eyebrows knitted together as she wondered why he wasn’t being straightforward with her. “What does this have to do with werewolves?” She asked steely, trying to hide her annoyance. 

Kodlak sighed as he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I tell you this to get a sense of the man before the Gift. The only account of what happened we have is from Kyrnil himself and it is vague. The Witches of Glenmoril Grove hired the Companion’s services, as anyone in Skyrim can. The details of what the job was are lacking, but he spoke of Reach Men. Perhaps rival covens, but it is no matter. As you can gather, witches did not have anything in the way of gold for paying for services rendered. Instead, they offered the Gift of Lycanthropy, to be used for the job and kept after. 

“From then on, he and his men used the blood in grave times of need. The most notable was when he secured much of the southern trading roads into Cyrodil while the Empire was in shambles after the end of the Septim dynasty. Much of the Legion had been recalled at that point. It was up to them to protect the merchant caravans. They prevented much of South Skyrim from starving that winter. After his passing, the Gift continued to be passed down by his Circle - the Ten Good Men - to what it is today.”

“So…,” Marcella eased into her scrutinizing after he finished, “It took lycanthropy for them to guard a few roads? They couldn’t without it?” Would men like Ignvarr be able to do it without?

“With only eleven of them total and hundreds of miles to cover? It would be completely impossible to keep it safe. But the blood makes one run faster, sense farther, sleep less. Each one of the ten counted for twenty themselves.”

It was indeed an impressive feat. Noble, even. Perhaps they spoke true about being better than feral werewolves. She wanted to believe in that. But her cynical side was ever-present. “You’ve never had anything bad go wrong?”

“Any whom we suspect to harm the innocent, are dealt with swiftly,” he answered in a cold, ominous tone. But she supposed that was what she wanted to hear. “The fact we have even been able to keep such a secret for so long is testament enough to our control.” 

She nodded slowly, agreeing with the logic. Then a thought popped to mind. “You…,” she began hesitantly, “aren’t going to make me one… now that I know?”

Kodlak smiled, amused. “No no, we hardly have discussed your official initiation into the Companions, let alone any special honors,” he chuckled. It sort of rubbed her the wrong way. Was he implying she eventually would? As odd as it felt, she was relieved nothing would be forced on her. Once he settled, the old man’s face dropped into serious contemplation. “But you must never speak of this. Despite our service, the people of Skyrim will not accept us as we are. I am sure you can imagine the consequences otherwise.” 

She nodded. Turning her eyes to Garm laying on her lap, the phrase ‘hunted like dogs’ came to mind. Once again, the pair sat in silence. Kodlak was considering her, and perhaps waiting for the question slowly forming on the woman’s face. “So… speaking of initiations and all… Vilkas mentioned that to advance to full membership I had to undergo a trial,” she said then waited as he confirmed this was true. “So, I went and rescued a Companion from one of your greatest enemies, right? Which could be considered a big trial if you think about it. So I was thinking-“

“No,” he cut her off so abruptly she stammered the last bit of sentence. 

The “what?” barely escaped her mouth. 

“To be initiated, a Companion must witness your deeds and declare your feat of valor. What you did was commendable, more than what a whelp should have been allowed to take on, but the whole situation is too muddled to be declared properly. The town will hear of your deed, but questions about the missing holes in the tale with breed rumors. I will not allow such things to befall us. So no, I do not accept this situation sufficient to be a trial,” Kodlak concluded in an authoritative tone.

But- what- that was so unfair! She was kept down for their secret? Everything she did would go unrecognized? What the hell!

Kodlak acknowledged the upset look on her face by resting his large, hairy hand on her knee just by Garms face. It made her feel like some little kid. The dog side-eyed the hand but ultimately did nothing as Kodlak continued, “I will not let what you did go unrewarded, fear not. For bringing back Vilkas to us, despite learning of our nature, you may choose your trial. Usually I would assign a task worthy of entry to the Companions, but in this case whatever you bring me I will approve to be your trial. Just remember, this will define you as a Companion, and the story will be told for years to come. Let it be something worthy.”

It wasn’t much of a prize in Marcella’s eyes. Now she had to do _more_ work to find something worthy of being repeated over and over for the rest of her life.

...or for just her time at the Companions. She couldn’t stay here forever, after all. Hmm. The temporary nature of the arrangement hadn’t come up in her mind for a while now. The sense of forlornness that it brought crushed what energy she had left, and she yawned. Kodlak removed his hand and stood with a fatherly smile.

“I’ll leave you to rest,” he said as he began making his exit, “Stay here if you like. I’ll inform the others of what transpired myself so they should not disturb you.”

She thanked him, and he nodded and took leave. Finally, she was left alone to rest. It wasn’t seconds after her eyes closed and Garm nuzzled up to her that she fell heavily into sleep.

—-

It was the dog’s scraping at the door that finally woke her. Just as a man would train a dog, the dog had trained her to snap awake at the sound. He had to pee. So she rolled out of bed like gelatin off a counter and got out of the warm bed. Sleepily, she knocked aside her pile of gear with her foot to shuffle to the door and let the dog out of the spare room. The blazing beam of light seeping in from the high windows of Jorrvaskr blinded her for a moment. Divines, she must have slept past noon. Vilkas was going to kill her.

...VILKAS! The sleep-fog cleared from her mind as she lit up from the reminder of all that had happened. She last saw him dragged away by the others in terrible condition. She had to see if he was okay. No one but Telma was in the hall. The kindly old lady asked if she was okay, and she answered truly that she was alright. The sweet old lady also informed Marcella that the healer was still with Vilkas down in his room, and that she said he would live. The younger woman only responded with a “that’s good” while letting the dog into the courtyard. It was a little less than she wanted to hear, though she supposed it was good he wasn’t dead. Garm trotting out the door caught the attention of the few Companions training out in the yard. Only Aela and Torvar were training separately, but took the time to greet Marcella. She greeted back shortly as to turn back to her objective: check on Vilkas.

The dorms were deathly quiet. Or just normally quiet but Marcella’s worry put a heavy edge to the lack of sound. She hoped he was better than just not dead. It took a little looking to find his room, but she knew it when she saw candlelight underneath the door crack. Gently, she knocked and then heard chair legs scoot against the stone floor. A familiar Nord priest opened the door. It took a second, but Marcella remembered it was the same woman who treated her when she woke up in Skyrim. 

“Oh,” the healer priest said somewhat disappointedly, “I thought you were the others back from Arcadia’s.”

Marcella apologized for not being who she hoped for then asked her way into the room. The priest ushered her in while muttering in a way most old folks do about appreciating some company. 

The sight of Vilkas was revealed past a writing area and a woven wood screen to a space with his bed, a small square table with a bowl of washing water, a chest for gear - gear noticeably absent since she never recovered his sword or armor from the Silver Hand blacksmith. Vilkas himself laid on his back, slightly turned to the way, and still except for his naked falling chest. To be fair, the linens were pulled to his rib cage. The only thing she could see him wearing were bandages around his sword arm with a dark shadowed circle in the center. 

“Aye, you’re just the help I needed,” the priest said as he offered one of two stools by the bed to Marcella. No doubt one of them was for Farkas, but she guessed he was the one on errands for the priest.

“Is he alright? Last I saw of him he was running a fever,” Marcella asked as she sat. 

“Worry not, these boys run hot normally,” she responded while taking a seat herself and scooting toward the bed, “he’s caught a cough coming from the rain and cold and needed water. It was good he got here before his wound got any worse. He’ll be fine, lass.” 

Made sense. He hadn’t really eaten or drank since before the skeever job. The younger woman let out a little sign of relief, despite the look of the dark bruises and red streaks from the storm magic across Vilkas’s body. The Mother then began instructing Marcella to help change the bandage on Vilkas’s arm. The man slept like the dead and didn’t even stir as they shifted around that side of the body. She only knew he wasn’t gone because of a clipped snore when they turned him to his back. As for the wound, it was dark and angry for inches around the hole. Whoever in that dank fort cut him deep. The old woman continued her report as she tied clean bandages around the re-treated wound, “I’m afraid his arm is in rough shape. He’ll need to rest it for a couple of weeks, and not fight for even longer. But after that time, besides a nasty scar, he should be back to normal.”

“Resilient man,” she commented absently as she rested back down into her stool. Being a werewolf probably added to his resilience, and she was at least glad for that. But then on the other hand they wouldn’t have been traded to the Silver Hand and he wouldn’t have been tortured if he wasn’t a werewolf and- she physically shook her head a bit to get off that circular ride.

A light of realization that washed over the priest’s body made Marcella look up from her thoughts. “Ah, I do remember you!” She said as if she had been asking the question over and over to herself. “You’re the woman with the dog, aren’t you? The one this one brought me in the spring.”

Marcella smiled sweetly at the woman when she nodded her head, “Marcella, yes.” She tensed up when she remembered she gave the priest a fake name. But luckily, the old woman didn’t make any indication that she recalled at all. Instead, the priest grabbed the young woman’s hand and patted it. 

“It’s good to see you healthy and recovered. Decided to stay with your rescuer then, eh?” She giggled with the soft teasing. Marcella turned pink and sputtered that no, she was a Companion actually. “All the same. Fresh faces are something we all need these days,” the priest hummed with a growing distance.

Marcella knew why. She’d seen the crowded state of the temple the one time she was in, and the growing stream of injured boys. It was hard to not notice the brewing rebellion in East Skyrim. She recalled the stir when Ulfric’s requested the Companions to be hired for his cause. Kodlak flatly refused. He said they must all stay out of such affairs. Even so, Marcella wished she could at least ease some burden for the kind old woman. She knew hardly anything about medicine and could barely even hold a swo-

 _Ah! But she could hold a sword now!_ Decently, even! She didn’t know exactly how that could help the priest, but the reminder she was finally somewhat capable light a fire in her. 

She shifted in her seat enough to make a creak. “Mother- um,” Marcella began before realizing she never got the poor woman’s name. How rude of her.

“Danica,” the priest finished with an amused smirk.

“Mother Danica, if I recall I owe for your care. I’m sorry I haven't been able to pay it back yet. But I can offer-“

“Hush child,” Danica held up her hand. “I told you no need, and to pay a kindness forward.”

“And who says I can’t pay it towards you, hm? I can help in some way,” Marcella said then began to babble a list of vaguely thought out options.

The old Mother thought a moment before insterupping to other woman. “There is… something. It’s a bit much to ask for but..,” she seemed shy to ask. Marcella urged her on with “anything”. “You’ve seen the tree in the plaza, yes? It is no ordinary tree.”

Marcella sort of knew that. It was unordinary by being dead. Not a single leaf grew on it all summer. There was an open cavity in the trunk to show a hollow, burned-out center. But she remained quiet as Danica continued.

“It is a trimming from a very old tree, blessed by Kynerth themself. We used to have many pilgrims visit our temple to see the Gildergreen and pray for blessings. From the donations of those kind souls, we were able to subsist and offer many services to those who fell on misfortune. That is, until we met with our own. Almost two years ago now, there was a terrible storm that ripped trees and homes from the ground. A bolt of lightning struck the Gildergreen, and it hasn’t grown a leaf since. Not long after, the pilgrims trickled down to nothing. It was very devastating,” Danica said with a ring of sadness. 

“I’m sorry but I don’t think I can bring the dead back to life, Mother.”

She shook her head in a way that said she knew some secret. “Trees like that never die. They simply… sleep. I’ve concluded that some sap from the mother tree could wake it. The sap from the Eldergleem could restore salted fields to lush forest. It can save its daughter.” Marcella accepted right away. What an exciting adventure! Although the excitement was tempered as the details filled in. Danica discovered in her studies that the bark of the mother tree could only be pierced by one knife in all of the world. However, hagravens owned it. They had taken a splinter of the tree and cursed it, so Danica said. So Marcella would have to defeat the witches of a grove high in the Jarrl Mountains to be able to even retrieve the sap. Then after that, she must take the pilgrims' way to Eldergleam Sanctuary to retrieve the life-saving sap.

It was perfect! Restoring the tree would do far more good than if she just paid her outright. Perhaps she could offer this quest to Kodlak as her trial? It seemed grand enough. While the details were being parsed, Farkas quietly came in with Ria hovering slightly back. They carried jars of poultice and glasses of potion with them. Farkas seemed to have gone out of his way to get his brother a sweet roll, and placed it on his desk for when he woke up. Marcella and him swapped places by the bed, and she began to make her way out before taking one last look at the sleeping man. She just noticed a sliver of his eye open and fixed on her. Damn, how long had he been awake? They were all reasonably quiet. Fool needed to sleep. However, her thoughts softened when he flexed the fingers by his face in some weak wave before blinking back asleep. It gave her a bit of a half-smile.

For the rest of the afternoon, Ria brought Marcella and Garm down to the Bannered Mare to eat and unwind and spill the entire story detail by detail. Marcella gave all but the forbidden ones. The dog ate happily from the wraps a few patrons gave him. They were so lost in the eating and laughing, the hardly notice the sun dip into chilly night.

-

“Hagravens you say,” Kodlak mused with a tinge of delight. He and Eorlund sat at the table in the Harbinger’s study smoking long wooden pipes when Marcella approached him.

“Yes, and whatever is on the path to the Eldergleam,” Marcella added. Oddly, she felt nervous standing before the two bearded men, afraid the idea would be dismissed as simple and childish. It was not the case at all, however. 

Kodlak nodded with a grown smile and he took a long drag. “Aye,” he said with a bellow of smoke from his lips, “a fitting task indeed. I wish Mother Danica had approached us sooner with this issue, we could have worked something out for our temple. But no matter, I approve of your handling.” 

Marcella couldn’t contain her proud smile. 

“Farkas will accompany you to bear witness, and help if the odds prove overwhelming for just one.”

“I wouldn’t want to take him from Vilkas,” she said.

“Worry not,” Eorlund spoke up with the pipe between his teeth, “it will take you a day or so to prepare, by then Vilkas should be in a more acceptable condition for Farkas to go.” 

It sounded good enough for her. But the mention of preparations reminded her. From her back, wedged safely in her belt, she produced the sad remains of her sword. It was nothing but a handle and a toothpick of metal. Eorlund choked on the hot smoke at the sight of it and began coughing his body inside out. Kodlak couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction and the sheepish look on her face. 

“What in the high realms of Oblivion did you do!?” The blacksmith raved.

“...I needed leverage,” she answered sheepishly, but understanding the teasing nature in his voice. Kodlak continued to belly laugh and smack a hand on his good friend’s shoulder as Eorlund rubbed his baggy eyes. She tentatively asked if he would reforge the sword for her. It almost seemed like he wouldn’t, until Kodlak’s laughter died and he spoke.

“Fine, lass. But you’re helping me the whole way. If it pushes off your quest a few days longer, so be it. Maybe then you’ll think before using it as a damn lever again!” 

“Fair’s fair,” Kodlak concluded with a chuckle and a drag on his pipe. She nodded, amused as well by the situation.

“Fairs fair. I’ll see you at dawn then,” she said with an apologetic bow to her elders, then took leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn I hope the length made up for the hiatus. This chapter was sorta a wall for me cause it all sorta needed to happen for the next arc to start but it was carrying me away and making it longer at first which stressed me. I think this is a good balance of all that needed doing. Lots of world building and lore. I had to fill in the giant gaps between the vague lore. Like you would think how and why the Companions became werewolves would have been flesh out more than not at all. Seems kinda a big deal.
> 
> But anywho, I read and checked through it this time so it should be free of at least spelling errors. Let me know what you think! And stick around for the next arc! It should drop in a month, since getting past this chapter means I get to the fun part now.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey dont forget to drop a comment bellow!


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